A Canvas of Crowns
by DarknessEnthroned
Summary: Pull a thread and the tapestry unravels. A song of ice and fire from the very first note. All the difference a drunk, a dwarf and a dragonbone dagger might have made in the right order. An audacious attempt to weave something new from the same web G R R Martin has spun. Likely to be epic length, and to contain aspects of all genres. Will be written faster than Winds of Winter!
1. Jon I

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

The warning: Anyone who has read my other drabble knows what's coming, but for those as of yet unfamiliar there will be single quote speecharks, and it's not going to change unless you pay me! Everything else you will have to read to see for yourself, though I am, as you know from the summary, starting from the beginning which means I have just committed myself to quite a vast project.

I need to draw another cover, but anyone whose skill with a pencil exceeds mine, and is gripped by a sudden generous desire to draw me a crown of winter roses, should PM me, and you may find your work on the cover. Obviously I will credit you for your talent!

Enjoy... (Or hate and inexplicably read anyway)

 **Jon**

A grey dire-wolf fluttered atop the fist, rippling before a clear, crisp, cloudless sky. The edges of the flag were encrusted with frost, thicker than Jon had ever seen it reach in half a decade of riding here.

He'd seen almost a score of men die here on the stump at the centre of the square, from the first, blue-eyed brigand, through to this man, a deserter from the Night's Watch, or even a wildling as he had heard the serving girls whispering about. He was the fourth such man this year that they had ridden to see meet with justice, and he would be the last before the King arrived. The whole of the North was whispering about Robert riding North. A King had not come so far North in generations.

'A stag says this one begs,' Theon murmured beside him, brushing dark hair from his eyes.

The words were meant for Robb, the heir, not for him.

'He's not afraid,' his brother replied. 'I'll take your silver this time, Greyjoy.'

Jon stared at the man between his father's guardsmen on his knees in the snow. Dazed, empty eyes as brown as the hair he shared with his father and his sister, hollow cheeks, and cracked, lips blue from the cold. Despite his obvious chill the man did not shiver, nor did he falter from the grim, grey gaze of Jon's father as he asked his questions.

At last Jon's father straightened up from his half-crouch, signalling to the guardsmen who thrust the unresisting man over the gnarled, stained ironwood stump.

'In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Man, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the of Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I sentence you to death for desertion, and the dereliction of your duty.'

The deserter never moved, nothing flickered in his face even as the Greatsword rose high above his head.

'Are there any words you would say before you leave the sight of Gods and men?' Their father asked.

'The cold's been in me,' the man warned, distant, and detached.

'Don't look away,' Jon warned Bran, the other brother alongside him, 'father will be disappointed if you do.'

His father's sword, Ice, passed from each Lord of Winterfell to the next, came down in a single, smooth sweep.

 _Nothing holds an edge like Valyrian steel._

Scarlet sprayed across the snow in a steaming spatter, and beside him Bran flinched but resolutely kept staring on as the deserter's head rolled across the ground to rest next to Theon who laughed and kicked it thoughtlessly away. Their father's ward found everything funny.

'He died bravely,' Robb said, extending a hand in Theon's direction. The Greyjoy's smile disappeared as terrible silver stag exchanged palms. 'You should have taken the wager, Jon.' The silver stag gleamed in Robb's hand for a moment until he tucked it away, but his blue eyes remained as solemn as their father's who stood on top of the fist holding the spell-forged greatsword while Jory Cassel, the captain of his guard, poured water along the length of the smoke-dark blade to clean it.

'He was already dead of fear,' Jon said bluntly, tearing his gaze away from Ice. 'His eyes were empty.'

'I think he was brave, and died well,' Robb disagreed, 'but either way he definitely didn't beg.'

'Did I do well?' Bran asked quietly, leaning down to whisper when Jon helped him onto his pony.

'Father will be proud,' Jon said.

'He flinched,' Theon disagreed, 'none of us did when we came.' Bran's face fell immediately, and Jon glared at Theon. 'It's the truth,' the fostered Greyjoy defended.

'Bran's a year younger than we were,' Robb reminded him.

'I wouldn't have flinched then either,' Theon shrugged, 'but perhaps a kraken is simply less squeamish than wolves.'

'Men in the snow don't fear squid, Greyjoy,' Robb grinned, twisting in his saddle. 'The bridge again?'

'The bridge,' Jon agreed, spurring his horse onwards, hooves scattering snow. Behind him Robb laughed and gave chase, the sound of their horses drowning out Theon's cursing at being last as they plunged down the steep side of the gully.

'Gods,' Robb swore, reigning in sharply to jump down into the snow. 'Jon!'

Sighing, for Greyjoy, the worst rider of the three, would surely now win, Jon reigned his own garron in, and urged it to the edge of the road after Robb.

The late summer snows had been heavy, and Robb was thigh deep before he had taken more than a handful of paces from the road, so Jon gave him a helpful shove sending him spluttering into the cold. Theon laughed, rejoining them as Robb picked himself from the ground, brushing ice from his cold, red face.

'Seven Hells,' Theon leapt from his garron into the snow, 'it's a monster.'

Jon followed the Greyjoy's gaze until he saw what he had believed to be a rock. Grey fur, turned black by ice, half buried by the snow, and eyes that shone pale blue when the weak morning sun shone on the film of ice that covered them.

'It's a wolf,' Robb marvelled.

'Stay back,' Jon warned. Even the largest wolf Jon had seen, the skull in the keep at Karhold, wasn't a third of the size of this one.

'That's one wolf even a kraken wouldn't care to tangle with,' Theon joked. 'What a freak!'

'It's a direwolf,' Jon reckoned. There wasn't much else it could be, no normal wolf would ever grow so large, and though no direwolf had been seen south of the Wall in a hundred years or more Jon knew what he saw.

'Was a direwolf,' Robb corrected, holding up a handful of crimson snow. 'It's dead.'

Something shifted beneath its neck and Theon jumped back several feet, hand flashing to the hilt of his longsword. 'Dead things don't move, Stark,' he laughed, fingers tight on the hilt of his blade.

Robb bent over, then straightened up, arms full of squirming, mewling fur.

'A pup,' Theon looked uncharacteristically sombre, 'without its mother it will suffer and die.'

Jon curled his toes into the snow in discomfort.

'There are more,' Robb said, as the rest of the party came wading through the snow to join them.

'Give it here, Stark,' Theon suggested, 'better it dies quick and clean than starves.'

'Best get it over with,' Hullen, their master of horse, agreed.

'No,' Robb grimaced, shielding the pup from Theon. 'Can we keep them, father?'

'Bad idea,' Jory muttered, 'it's sign this is, and not a good one.'

'It's only a wolf,' his father said, but he looked troubled, and strode through the snow to stand at Robb's side. 'What killed it?'

'There was something under the jaw,' Robb said tentatively, 'but I didn't touch it.'

His father knelt to grope along the underside of the beast's neck, then yanked half a foot of twisted, shattered antler out from underneath. The direwolf's jaws spilled open, revealing jagged, yellow teeth.

Jory exchanged a troubled glance with father, whose eyes came to rest on Jon, frowning deeply.

Four other shapes wriggled in the blood-stained snow, crawling from the corpse of their mother.

'A whole litter,' Jory said, hand on his dagger. 'I'm surprised she managed to whelp with that in her neck.'

'Maybe she didn't,' Harwin, Hullen's son, said grimly. 'There are stories.'

His father tossed the shard of antler away, cleaning his gloves in a clear patch of snow. 'Theon is right,' he decided. 'Better a quick death.'

'No,' Bran said, almost pleading, 'we can take care of them.'

The youngest Stark stepped down from his pony to scoop up the nearest pup; it buried his head in his brother's soft leathers whining gently and searching for milk.

'How?' Theon asked, brandishing his blade. 'Do you intend to nurse the pup yourself?' He stepped through the snow to Bran. 'Give him to me, Bran, it's better this way.'

'Put up your sword, Greyjoy,' Robb ordered, sounding for all the world like father.

'There are five, three male, two female,' Jon announced, sharing a look with Robb. His brother clearly had no intention of giving up the pup that whimpered and nuzzled at his chest if he could help it.

'So?' Hullen asked.

'You have five children, Lord Stark, three sons, and two daughters,' Jon continued, 'and the direwolf is the sigil of House Stark. Jory is right, it is a sign, the Gods meant your children to have these pups.'

Robb flinched from his unusual formality, and the men shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances. Theon snorted, shaking his head.

'These are not dogs,' his father said sternly, 'they will not follow like hounds, or beg for treats. A direwolf will rip a man's throat out as easily as hound will a hare's.'

'We'll train them well, father,' Robb promised.

'The Gods help you if you do not,' their father said solemnly, 'for I won't have you wasting others' time with them. They are your responsibility.'

'Thank you, father,' Bran gushed in the silence that fell after his acquiescence, tucking the pup he held into his leathers, safe and warm for the ride back home.

Their father was staring sadly at Jon, who returned his gaze unflinchingly.

 _I am no Stark._

He'd learnt that lesson a long time ago.

'They may die anyway,' father warned, 'no matter what you do, or how much you love them.'

'We won't _let_ them,' Robb declared.

'Keep them, then,' their father answered mildly. 'Jory, Harwin, gather the others, it's time we returned home.'

Something red gleamed away to the South while the others remounted, staring desperately from the snow, and Jon, seized by sudden surety, dismounted to wade across.

'An albino,' Theon remarked, when Jon plucked the sixth pup from the cold. It was the only one whose eyes had opened, but they were scarlet as the stain on the snow at the square, and its fur was pale. 'If any of them die, it will be this one.'

Their father's ward, for once, sounded almost regretful.

'It must have crawled away,' Robb said thoughtfully.

'Or he was driven away,' their father said sadly, eyeing the unusual colouring with some apprehension.

'This one is mine,' Jon decided, throwing an angry look at Theon, who was still holding his bare blade suggestively. The pup's eyes gleamed like rubies from behind his black leathers, peering out curiously at the world around.

'It looks like the face of the Weirwood,' Bran commented softly, pulling his pony alongside Jon.

The Heart Tree of Winterfell sat at the centre of its godswood. Three full acres of stubborn, stern trees, with grey-green needles, and thick-barked trunks as old as the realm, spread from underneath the thousand, crimson leaves of the Weirwood and its cold, dark pool. The tree was older than Winterfell from what Jon knew, the face too. The mournful eyes, long face, and grim mouth had been cut into the bone-white wood by the Children of the Forest before the First Men had walked the snow-covered hills and taken the nameless gods for themselves.

'I suppose he does a little,' Jon agreed. The pup's eyes were the same scarlet as the sap of the Heart Tree, and he was a creature of the North, just as the old gods, and his brothers were, but there the resemblance ended. The direwolf, like Jon, was slimmer than his brothers, lean and slender where they already showed signs of becoming stocky, and hinting at grace and speed, rather than great strength.

'That was a noble thing you did,' his father told him, dropping back from the head of the column a solemn frown upon the face that Jon shared so much off with him.

'They didn't need to die,' Jon said calmly. 'It wasn't right.'

His father studied him, face grave. 'You may look like me,' he smiled, grey eyes softening, 'but there is much of your mother in you. She always did what she thought was right, even before duty.'

Jon didn't bother asking. He'd stopped trying a long time ago. If his father ever told him it would be when he was ready, and no amount of begging or digging on Jon's part would ever bring the moment closer. Until that moment he had only rumours, whispers, the comparison of cracked paint and the fragmented descriptions of foreigners, to his own face.

'We'll be back at Winterfell soon,' his father said quietly, 'and the King is coming. It has been mentioned to me that seating you among your siblings may not be wise. Robert has many children who do not share the same mother, and seeing you may give him ideas to bring them to court, and expose them to the wrath of the Lannister woman he has made queen.'

'I do not understand,' Jon said, 'I am to be set aside to avoid offending some southern lady?'

'My lady wife is not fond of you, Jon,' his father sighed, 'Cat is a kind, loving woman, and she tolerates you, because I ask her to. You may not be a Stark, but you are my son. Cersei Lannister is neither kind nor loving, she will not tolerate Robert's innocent children, she will torment them. For their sake we must do this.'

'For their sake,' Jon repeated. It tasted bitter, more bitter than when had omitted himself, for that, at least, had been his own doing, and though he had estranged himself, he had not pushed so much distance between himself and his siblings.

'I'm sorry, Jon.'

'I understand, father,' Jon said evenly.

 _This will only get worse while I remain in Winterfell._

Lady Stark tolerated him barely. She hated to see so much as his shadow, did her best to separate from his siblings, and tried to push him from his family as best she could. It was not fair. It had not been Jon who betrayed, nor had it been him who tempted his father away from his wife, and his honour, but it was Jon that paid the price.

'Why is the King coming, father?' He asked.

'Jon Arryn, whom I named you for, has died,' his father told him sadly, 'he wishes for a new Hand.'

'Will you go?'

'I do not want to,' he admitted, 'I do not belong in the south, but it is my duty to my king, and my friend.'

 _South._

He had once considered going south, years ago, when he had first heard her name whispered. Jon had almost run, almost fled from his father and his family to find her, but the summer snows had been deep, and Starfall was far away, too far for a ten year old to ever reach.

 _Ashara Dayne._

Jon had never had the courage to say her name to his father; there was not a single man or woman in the North that did, but it had been a good thing he had not run. He did not belong in the south either. If Ashara Dayne was his mother, then there was nothing for him there but a name on a grave, and the hatred of her family, for they would have no love for the honourless child of the man who had slain their Sword of the Morning.

'I cannot take you South,' his father told him, breaking the silence, mistaking Jon's silent thought for contemplation.

'I know.'

 _There is no place for me in either the North or the South._

No realm of lords held a place for a bastard. To be born from dishonour was to be condemned to live in its shadow. There were princes, knights, lords and ladies in both father's and Sansa's stories, but Jon knew of no bastards that ever came to anything. In all the songs and stories they appeared in they were the villains, not the heroes.

'You'll find a place,' his father promised him. 'You have a family.'

'Lady Stark will not tolerate me when you have gone south,' Jon replied simply, and that, that his father could not refute.

AN: You all know how this goes, I haven't pulled that thread yet, so no real divergence, pretty much just the same old foreshadowing and prologue. I might rewrite and add to this chapter a little as well, since I'm posting this before it's completely finished so anyone who read the postscript of my other story and is interested can find it before they forget. Please read and review, thanks to anyone and everyone who does!


	2. Jon II

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

So I said it would likely be a while before things got going, and things still aren't completely planned out yet, but my boredom peaked, and has now proved me a liar.

Here's the next chapter!

 **Jon II**

There were half a hundred banners that Jon didn't recognise, but only two that he needed to. The bright, crowned stag, antlers proud and sharp, and Lannister crimson and gold. For many within the walls of Winterfell those two banners would evoke very different emotions. It was the stag that had avenged Jon's grandfather, aunt and brother, who had liberated the realm from the madness of the festering, failing targaryen kings, but the lions had only marched after the war was won, when it was in their own interests, and furthered their own ends.

Such ambition was the prerogative of southern Lords; it had no place in the North.

The riders swept through the gate, spilling into the square and reigning their horses in to snort hot mist and paw at the cold cobbles in front of his siblings, father, Lady Stark and half of Winterfell.

The first were all in white, plate and cloaks as bright as milk, but gleaming cold like the frost in the Godswood.

'Ned!' The only splash of colour amongst them roared. 'Where is that frozen face of yours? I did not ride so far into this frigid wasteland you call home to linger on your threshold like a gold-browed brigand.'

The king was a ball of brown furs, and dark, stained leathers who vaulted from his saddle to stagger into the embrace of Jon's father, wielding a wineskin in one hand, and crushing his foster brother tightly in the other.

He was not the man Jon had been expecting.

The songs and tales spoke of a prince as tall as he was strong, with clear eyes as blue as the Trident, and strong, clean-shaven jaw. None of the stories he had heard of Robert Baratheon had mentioned the man's gut, the scraggly, black beard grown to hide a swelling, second chin, and the dark shadows beneath his brows. There had been warhammers, stags, dragons, roses and rubies, but not a single line dedicated to the way the King's horse sagged with relief, nor how his father's arms no longer reached all the way around his old friend's torso.

'Cat,' the King boomed, wrapping an arm around Lady Stark, who smiled kindly, but wrinkled her nose. 'As lovely as the last time I saw you.'

'My eldest,' his father introduced, 'Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon.'

'The nights of the North are long and cold,' the king laughed. Lady Stark pursed her lips, and for that Jon almost forgave Robert Baratheon his unkingly appearance.

'I want to see her, Ned,' the King demanded, far less loudly.

His father led him away towards the crypts, leaving no mystery as to who _she_ had been. Jon frowned, glancing to the carriage where the Queen watched, thin-lipped. He had expected to dislike her for unwitting part in segregating him from his siblings, and for words he had overheard his father say of her, but now he just felt sorry for her to be so casually slighted in the sight of all. Heartless, his father had said sadly, but Jon could hardly blame her. Her husband loved a dead woman, and still chose her, and his whores, over his queen.

A second, far lighter pair of thuds signalled the dismounting of the nearest two of the Kingsguard. The first followed the king, but the other simply slipped his helm from his head to look around at the assembly.

 _There is a man who looks like a king ought to,_ Jon thought.

His hair, like the Queen's, might have been spun from gold, falling loose and wild around his ears, framing flashing, bright, emerald eyes. Ser Jaime Lannister they called him to his face, and Kingslayer they whispered when he turned his back. His blade had brought an end to the rule of the mad King Aerys, avenging Lord Rickard and Brandon, but Jon was well aware that his father did not approve of Jaime Lannister.

 _He broke his vows,_ his father had said disappointedly, _and a knight without honour is little more a sword._

The knight's eyes drifted over his siblings, and across the arrayed people of Winterfell, passing over him, pausing, and returning to linger a little longer, a slight smirk spreading across his lips.

Shame welled within him.

Jon knew that look. It was the sly, satisfied smile of Lords and men who were glad to find that Eddard Stark was as human, as fallible, as they were, and he hated being the cause of it more than anything.

The white direwolf pup nipped his fingers playfully, pushing his cold nose against Jon's palm.

'Hungry?' He asked. Jon did not expect a reply. His siblings had named theirs within hours of meeting them. Grey Wind, Lady, Jon had rolled his eyes at Sansa's choice until Arya giggled, Nymeria, whom Arya was far too fond of, Summer, and Shaggydog. Rickon had yet to understand the difference between a wolf and a dog, let alone a direwolf. He'd waited, wanting to give the pup the right name, a good name, rather than the first one that sprang to mind. Names were important.

It was Ghost that he had chosen, for while his siblings whined, and mewled and howled when the mood took them Ghost never made a sound.

'There's a feast,' he told Ghost, 'soon there'll be plenty of food for both of us.'

The direwolf cocked its head, eyeing him with an air that could only be described as sceptical.

'Soonish,' Jon relented, sliding out of the crowd. If the king was here then there would almost certainly be some form of ceremony and circumstance beforehand.

He was right.

Slipping in early to wedge himself into one of the benches, had let him steal a seat beneath a torch, where it would be well lit for the duration of the evening, and remain a little warmer too, but it had not brought either him, or Ghost closer to food or drink until the procession and proprieties of the occasion had been observed.

The king and the queen had walked through first, a glitter of gold, bright emeralds, and smooth, pale skin beside a man who clad himself in silk, and wore a crown, but looked no more a king than he did slumped over the benches at the far end of the hall.

His father and Lady Stark followed, the Kingslayer, clad in crimson, crowned with natural gold, overshadowing his brother, the Imp, who was barely visible behind him. Every flaw the Gods had found with Tywin Lannister had been repaid in his second son. Mismatched eyes glinted beneath his heavy, hairy brow, one as green as grass, the other as dark as dragonglass. His disproportionately large head was covered with curls so blond they gleamed white, beneath the torches as he waddled beside his sibling. Someone had once told him that the shame of all great lords was in their lesser sons, Theon, he suspected, when the ward had been speaking with wine's bitter honesty.

The children came next, his siblings paired with the royal ones, walking proud and tall towards the dais. The king watched them past his wine goblet, and the queen smiled for the first time Jon had seen since arriving. A soft, gentle curve of rose-red lips that Jon recognised from the face of Lady Stark whenever his siblings excelled at something.

The dais filled slowly, and each time an empty seat vanished something twisted within him.

 _This is how things are,_ he reminded himself; it would not do to forget, hope was a more harrowing weapon than any sword.

Jon poured himself a cup of wine, sipping at it while Ghost stirred by his feet, disturbed by the noise, and the scent of arriving food.

 _It is not so bad,_ he told himself.

He might not be allowed amongst his family, but away from his father's stern gaze he could do as he pleased, and the summerwine slid down easily, even on a relatively empty stomach.

The men around him did not begrudge him his place among them below the flames, but they did not speak with him either. A bastard might be unfit to be seated at the same table as the king, but he was still the son of a lord, and that made them all uncomfortable, more so for him than for others, for his siblings were all doubtless lords and ladies, their station obvious, but Jon, Jon was not so easily placed. Address him too disrespectfully, and they feared his father's wrath, treat him too like his siblings, and Lady Stark's anger would make itself known.

Ghost pushed his nose into Jon's knee, bright, scarlet eyes staring up silently at Jon.

He chuckled, passing the nearest chicken down below the table to the wolf pup.

'I'm fairly sure your lord father instructed you not to bring the wolves.' Jory Cassel swung himself onto the bench, cheeks red from the cold.

'And the captain of the guard shouldn't be lingering here at the low tables, when his men freeze outside,' Jon retorted. The wine had heated his blood and sharpened his tongue.

'And yet here we both are,' Jory chuckled, snagging black, blood sausages from the gravy of a nearby trencher. 'Ghost will trouble nobody but the curs and bitches beneath the benches, and the walls of Winterfell will not fall for lack of my blade.'

'You wanted to see the Kingslayer,' Jon realised, finishing his cup, licking red summerwine from the corner of his mouth.

'And Barristan Selmy too, they are the last of Kingsguard that fought for the dragons, a different kind of knights to most of those you'll find there,' Jory told him sourly, dipping his head in the direction of the dais.

'A knight is a knight,' Jon frowned.

'There are knights, Jon, and then there are _knights,_ ' Jory laughed. 'Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, they would be ashamed of the men who now wear those cloaks.'

'I can't imagine they would be all that proud of Jaime Lannister either,' Jon pointed out.

'No,' Jory admitted, 'but he was chosen by the Sword of the Morning himself, so he must have once been just as special as the others. My father was killed by Ser Arthur Dayne, you know.'

'Oh?' This Jon had not heard. He knew, like many, that Martyn Cassel had been one of five men who had died fighting alongside his father when he had gone to find Lyanna Stark, but he had not known that it was the Sword of the Morning who had slain him.

'Lord Stark told me how he died,' Jory mused, 'felt he owed me the truth, I suppose.'

'Did he tell you what Ser Arthur Dayne was like?' Jon asked, staring at his reflection in the wine. 'What he looked like, how he was?'

'Why is that all boys only want to hear about the knight, and not the loyal bannerman?' Jory shook his head. 'I know little of Ser Arthur Dayne, only that he was blond-haired, indigo-eyed, and as swift with his wit as he was his sword and lance. I know more about the appearance of his blade than I do him,' he realised wryly, 'there's a none too subtle hint as to the true nature of knights.'

Something crunched under the table, and the two of them glanced down to watch Ghost prying apart the ribcage of the chicken Jon had slipped him. None of the castle hounds had dared try and challenge him for his prize, indeed they all shied away from his pale fur and hot, red eyes.

'I'm not going to be a knight,' Jon shrugged. 'Bran, Robb and Rickon will be knights, not me.'

'You're skilled with a sword,' Jory told him gently, 'better than any of your brothers, even if we had to pry you from your books to first swing one.'

'I don't remember that,' Jon laughed.

'We lured you from your pile of tomes and out into the yard with false promises,' Jory grinned. 'People used to wonder if you were Brandon's son, given his reputation, but within a few years you'd grown as quiet, and private as your father, and you've only grown more melancholy since. Your wolf suits you, Jon.'

'Thanks,' Jon replied dryly. He had little memory of the library tower, only recollections of finding stories there that spent themselves in bittersweet dreams, and Lady Stark's cold eyes.

'Don't thank me, we never did let the Septa teach you music,' Jory shrugged. 'Your father felt it wasn't the best idea, and I suppose he had a point, you'd have little use for it.'

'Probably a good thing,' Jon decided. 'None of my brothers have any gift for it, and Theon's drunken yammering is terrible enough.'

Jory screwed his face up, nodding grimly. 'That one shouldn't sing.'

A hand ruffled his hair, and he twisted about on the bench, catching his empty goblet just before it hit the floor.

'Had a few more cups of that than your father would approve of have you, Jon?' Uncle Benjen's blue-grey eyes twinkled in amusement. Clad in black, as befitted a man of the Night's Watch, and before the light of the torch he was little more than a shadow over the bench.

Jon said nothing, but Jory burst out laughing, drawing eyes from all across the hall, which said all it needed to his uncle. His father frowned down at them from the dais, and Jory hurriedly excused himself, vanishing back out to the guard.

'Ah well.' Benjen took Jory's seat. 'I was younger than you the first time I was truly drunk, Brandon thought it would be fun to take me to a feast in Karhold, and while he was off chasing skirts I was left to drink with Maege Mormont,' he shook his head, a rueful grin on his gaunt, sharp face, 'that was a mistake.'

He had deftly removed Jon's cup from reach though, stealing it for his own, as he poured himself a half measure.

'Don't you normally sit with your brothers and sisters?' Benjen inquired.

'Lady Stark was afraid my presence might cause offence, and father fears the king might follow his example and surround himself with his baseborn children.'

'The Lannister woman might not like that,' Benjen agreed.

'I am almost grateful,' Jon said wryly. 'The only two on the table who look like they're enjoying themselves are the King and Sansa.'

The former had been drinking heavily from the moment he had collapsed into his chair, and now, ruddy-cheeked and loud, he offered toast after toast to those around him, eating every dish within reach. In contrast Sansa picked at her food, doting on the attention of the crown prince, whose pouty-lipped, vain countenance turned Jon's stomach.

The rest of the table was awash with polite small talk, guarded courtesies, and feigned smiles.

'An astute observation,' Benjen nodded grimly. 'The King has much changed since last my brother saw him, I do not envy him this duty. Your father is not suited to the south, we Starks prefer the snow; we suffer in the sun.'

 _We,_ Jon's lips twisted.

'You're as good as,' his uncle reminded him, not missing the expression.

'Don't let Lady Stark here you say that,' Jon said flatly, 'she won't have you encouraging my dreams of stealing her children's birthright.' He regretted the bitterness that accompanied his tactless jest immediately. 'Sorry,' he apologised, 'sometimes it feels unfair.'

'Life isn't fair,' his uncle told him bluntly. 'I was a third son, little more than a footnote on the pages of history, but I've made a name for myself elsewhere, I'm sure you can do the same.'

'Join the Night's Watch?' Jon asked curiously. He had considered it. There was no place for him in the South, no honour in the East, and he could not remain here, so where else could go but North.

'It is an option,' Benjen said, 'and the gods know we need the men, but it's not a decision to take lightly.'

'I'll talk to father,' Jon decided, 'I can ride back North with you.'

His uncle looked at him wearily, opening his mouth to say something further, but thought better of it, and smiled instead. 'Wherever you go you'll excel,' he told him softly. 'You're able, dutiful, and determined, more than a match for whatever the Gods choose to throw your way.'

'Maybe I'll get lucky and be legitimised,' Jon snorted.

'Actually,' Benjen grinned, 'you could probably walk right up to the king and ask him. He'd likely do it, unless he's so drunk he mistakes you for your father.'

For the briefest moment Jon was tempted, tempted enough to straighten up in his seat and turn to look at the man, but the king seemed so inglorious, so terribly less, that he couldn't conceive of him doing something so important for him.

It wasn't Robert Baratheon's eye he caught, however, but the cold, blue eyes of Lady Stark, and he knew, in the instant their eyes met, that she was glad beyond words to see him so far away, happy to find him hurting, though he had never done anything to her save take his first breath.

 _Dreams are dust,_ he reminded himself.

'I need to be excused,' he said, jumping from the bench, ignoring his uncle's exclamation.

The serving girl twisted aside, spilling onions and gravy across the floor to the laughter of those around him, and hot tears burnt at the edges of his eyes, prickling at the humiliation.

He didn't look back up at the dais, but stormed straight out into the snow, Ghost on his heels.

He spied the familiar figure of Jory Cassel on the ramparts, huddled around the brazier with the sentry, but aside from those two shadows Winterfell seemed deserted, abandoned just as the ruined holdfast he had seen on the road past the Barrowlands had been.

It calmed him a little.

'Do you have any water, boy?' Tyrion Lannister was perched upon the ledge over the entry to the Great Hall, staring down at him like some oddly carved gargoyle with his mismatched eyes.

'No,' Jon answered. 'Why are you up there?'

'I drank too much,' the Lannister replied, 'so I left before I made a fool of myself. My sweet sister so hates it when I vomit upon her.'

 _Would that I had done the same._

'Is that a wolf?' He asked, peering down curiously.

'Ghost is a direwolf.' Jon was still wondering how the little man had managed to get up to his seat. Bran loved to climb, over the towers, up the battlements, and in the trees of the Godswood, but never here, not where Lady Stark would see and scold him.

'You're Ned Stark's bastard.'

'He is my father,' Jon gritted.

'You didn't deny it,' the dwarf nodded, looking oddly pleased. 'Good. The world won't let you forget what you are, boy, so don't you forget either.'

'I'm going to find somewhere people don't care,' Jon decided firmly.

'Ah,' the dwarf grinned, 'well when you do, send me a raven, I would be overjoyed to join you with the Grumpkins.' Jon snorted despite himself, and the little man chuckled with him. 'Best not to get your hopes up.' He paused, gauging the distance to the ground, then leapt, spinning to spring from his fingers to his feet, and dusting the snow from his hands. 'I'm Tyrion Lannister.'

'I know.' Ghost withdrew behind Jon's legs, fangs bared warily.

'My father still hopes the world will forget,' Lannister said sardonically, 'sadly nobody has yet.' He stared up at Jon, measuring him. 'There is a lot of the North in you,' he remarked, 'but that is not quite all there is, those cheekbones and that jawline, there's nothing Stark in those.'

'I don't know who my mother is,' Jon told him brusquely, but her name was in his head again. The one that was no longer whispered in Winterfell.

'Not from the North I would wager,' Tyrion Lannister shrugged, 'once you look past the eyes, hair, and nose from your father there's too elegant an air to your features for her to be of this cold wasteland.' His mismatched eyes met Jon's own, looking a touch softer than before. 'So where's this idyllic world of yours?'

'I'm going to accompany my uncle to the Wall,' Jon declared, far more certainly than he felt.

'The Night's Watch,' Lannister mused. 'Not an easy life, an honest one, but certainly harder than some you might choose. I'd not resign myself to something like that so soon if I were you. You might be a bastard, but there's more to the world that snow, boy, even one so short as I can see that.' With that he swivelled on the spot, eliciting another silent snarl from Ghost, and sauntered back into the Great Hall, likely in search of water.

AN: Please read and review, thanks to everyone who does!

P.S. This patchwork of perspectives suits slightly shorter chapters than I was writing for my previous story, but the shorter they are, the quicker I'll post them!


	3. Jon III

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

New chapter - I do apologise for the wait, my muse got distracted by my own writing for the last few days, so I've been doing that rather than this fanfiction, and I completely forgot to post this until today! Still keeping to my promised writing speed though ;)

Anyway, here it is...

I'll tug that thread soon.

 **Jon III**

Clear skies meant a cold frost, and there had been no clouds over Winterfell since early last evening. A thin film of pale frost covered the red fingers of the Weirwood, only just beginning to melt now the sun was reaching its zenith.

'That one does not take after father,' Jory remarked, nodding at the two boys batting at each other beneath their spot on the battlements.

'Nor his uncle,' Jon agreed.

Tommen Baratheon was no favourite of the Warrior the South prayed to. He was as soft and meek as Jon had ever seen, flinching not only from Bran's blunted blade, but from landing any hits on his opponent too.

'He's too kind,' Jory shook his head, 'if he is ever king there will chaos and rebellion across the realm. A lord has to be respected as well as loved.'

'I still like him more than his brother,' Jon grimaced.

'It's no wonder the king drinks so much,' the captain of the guard agreed, kicking his feet against the stone. 'We'll get to see how he fares with a blade in his hand soon enough though, maybe he's as deadly as he is pretty, like his uncle.'

 _Or his mother,_ Jon thought.

He'd seen more than enough wariness in the eyes of the king's party to know that the queen was not to be trifled with.

'I'm sure he will complain bitterly when Robb bruises his face.'

'Did your voice just deepen, Jory?' Jon grinned.

'Funny,' the man scowled, and Arya, his little sister, made to stamp on his leg until he jerked it out of harm's way.

'I wanted to fight,' Arya moaned, tugging tetchily at her hair, 'but mother says I'm not allowed because I'm a girl.'

'I'm sure Lady Stark knows what she's talking about,' Jory replied mildly.

'She wants me to wear dresses, stitch, sing songs and eat cakes like stupid Sansa does,' his sister grumbled. 'I want to be a knight.'

'She's not having much success, is she,' Jon noted dryly.

'No,' Arya grinned, brushing her tangle of hair back off her face.

She was clad in leathers, breeches rather than skirts, likely Bran's, whom she was closest in age to, and her long face was as streaked with mud as her hair.

'You've been in the Godswood with Nymeria again,' Jory sighed. 'Lady Stark will have my head put on a spike.'

Arya looked only slightly concerned.

'I wasn't on my own,' she protested innocently.

'Oh,' Jory looked relieved, but Jon knew better than to trust that innocent objection, 'who was with you?'

'Rickon,' Arya smiled.

'You took your three year old brother into the Godswood to play with direwolves on your own.'

'You'll make a lovely wall ornament,' Jon comforted him.

'I'll blame you,' Jory retorted, 'then it will be your head.'

Jon frowned, and stared down at the yard below. Lady Stark would likely blame him regardless, though she would never have his head put on a spike above the walls.

 _It's bad enough that anyone sees my face and my relation to father, let alone hanging his dishonour over the battlements._

Jory shifted uncomfortably on the wall, tugging his cloak tighter about his shoulders as Arya glared at him.

'Oh,' he said eventually, 'the prince has given up.'

Bran had finally disarmed Tommen, knocking his blade to the floor to the disgust of the watching Lannister men who were watching from the yard behind his older brother. The young prince looked quite relieved that it was over.

'You're still pathetic,' Joffrey exclaimed loudly, his voice carrying up to the three of them on the wind. 'If that were live steel there'd be nothing left of you but mince.'

His younger sibling shrank into himself, cowering into the ranks of the Lannister men, who said nothing to defend him. The crown prince's words were as cruel as they were unnecessary, but not one of them seemed surprised, not by Tommen's defeat, and not by his older brother's contempt.

'He's such a,' Arya screwed her face up in search of a word that would do the crown prince justice, 'such a brat. I don't know why Sansa likes him.'

'Your sister is quite taken with her handsome prince.'

'Nothing good ever comes of southern princes and northern ladies,' Jory muttered.

' _Our_ sister,' Arya scowled. 'I don't think she can really be our father's daughter though, she's not like us, and she doesn't look like us either.'

'Neither does, Robb, or Bran,' Jon grinned, 'but they are both definitely our brothers, nobody can sulk like a Stark,' he teased. He threw a glance around the watching crowd, but saw no sign of Sansa. 'Where is your sister? I would expect her to be watching the prince.'

He would be a little disappointed if she missed Robb defeat her golden-haired hero.

'Needlework,' Arya shrugged, looking effortlessly innocent.

'Ah,' Jon grinned. 'You're up here hiding from the Septa.'

'I hate sewing,' she grumbled. 'Septa Mordane just tells me I'm doing it wrong over and over while Sansa does it all perfectly.'

'The longer you hide the worse it will be,' Jon reminded her.

Jory chuckled, drawing his attention back to the yard below. 'The prince does not seem eager his round.'

'Robb would cut him to ribbons,' Arya declared loyally.

Below them harsh, angry words rang out, the Lannister men laughing, while Winterfell's castellan looked on, furious and bemused.

Theon was holding Robb back with a firm grip on his shoulder.

'An absolute little prick,' Jory agreed contemptuously. 'I pity us all the day he ever becomes king.'

'It's a long way from King's Landing to Winterfell,' Jon said. They hadn't seen or heard anything of Robert Baratheon in more than a decade, and the king was supposed to be close friends with his father. The North all but ruled itself, kneeling only when the crown turned its gaze to check.

'Not far enough,' Arya said, staring disgustedly at the prince. 'Sansa wants to _marry_ him.'

'Arya!'

Jon's sister gulped.

 _Lady Stark and the septa, you are in trouble little sister._

'Come with me this instant,' Lady Stark ordered, 'you're meant to be with your sister, and in _proper_ company for a lady of your station.'

Jon grit his teeth, and Arya glared daggers at her mother until he gave her a light nudge.

'Best to get it over with,' he whispered.

Lady Stark led Arya away by the wrist, trailed by the septa, never once acknowledging the existence of either Jon or Jory.

 _Family. Duty. Honour._

There were times when he wondered if Lady Stark only applied the last two words of her house's mantra to those she considered family - the Tullys, her husband, and her children.

Jon took the other set of steps down from the ramparts, leaving Jory on his own, and seeking, as he often did, the solace of solitude within Winterfells walls.

The castle was old, older than nearly any other, built in a time before history, and added to, wall by wall, stone by stone, over countless centuries until what must have once been a simple keep was a sprawling, complex tangle of towers.

There were many places left all but unused. Towers that had once been watch towers, but were now little more than turrets beside their replacements. The shadows of the Godswood, where he was sure he would never happen across Lady Stark who was uncomfortable with the older, faceless deities of the North.

The Godswood, however, lay on the other side of the yard, through a crowd of red cloaks, and past a pair of princes, and with the arrival of the king and his entourage many of the empty rooms in the towers were filled.

So he went to the last place he was sure of his solitude.

It was not his favourite place. He did not like standing among stone Starks, and enduring their silent judgement of him, for he was sure that if they could they would disapprove of him, but when he went far enough in there were no torches, and there no statues over the empty tombs. What he couldn't see was soon forgotten.

He had drive his shoulder against the door to open it. The steel-bound ironwood was heavy, and as thick as his forearm at the elbow. On the hotter days in midsummer the wood would expand and the door would stick fast in its frame; it could take three men to open it then.

The winding stone steps down would only take one man at a time, however, and in the flickering light of the torches Jon was always careful about where he put his feet; it was a long way to fall down to the first level, and there were many more below it.

The first lords entombed by the door were centuries old. The iron longswords that should have rested across their laps to trap their spirits were little more than sinister looking rust stains beneath stern, strong faces.

Jon knew none of them.

Bran did.

He would name them on the rare occasion they came down together, and some of their deeds, both true and terrible, had stuck. Men who had massacred, burnt and pillaged across the riverlands, those who had betrayed their promises to the old gods, and died kneeling in the snow, the betrayed, and the betrayers, all were buried here, for they were all Starks, and he was not.

'Who's there?' A hoarse voice called.

Jon froze; it was not a voice he knew, and few were brave or ignorant enough to venture into these crypts.

'Come out in the name of your king!' The voice bellowed impatiently, and now it was a shout he recognised it.

 _The king._

Jon's eyes flicked along the row of faces, to the shadow of the man, and the stone likenesses of the grandfather, aunt and uncle he had never known that loomed behind him.

'Your grace,' he murmured, stepping out in front of the fat king's shadow. He dared not linger and anger the man.

He was dressed in hunting leathers and furs, a broad-bladed spear made for boar hunting leant against the wall, forgone in favour of a wineskin.

'Ned?' The King asked, puzzled his friend's seemingly youthful appearance. 'No,' he realised, staring at Jon, 'too refined for Ned, you must be one of his sons, but by the gods in this light I thought you were your father come to scold me again.'

'Of a sort, your Grace,' Jon agreed.

'A sort?' The King snorted, taking a swig of the wineskin, brushing lost drops from the coarse, scraggly hair that sprouted over his chins. 'Either he's your father or he's not, boy, there's not much middle ground there. I would know.'

'Lady Stark is not my mother, your Grace.'

'Stop that,' the King grumbled irritatedly. 'Your grace this, your grace that. I'm an overweight warrior with a golden headache,' he tapped his crown contemptuously, 'not some silk-draped popinjay.' He took another long drink, spilling as much as he swallowed. 'So you're Ned's bastard. The only proof that the damnable weather up here hasn't frozen his blood completely.'

'Yes, your Grace.' Jon's toes curled within his boots, straining against the cold floor. He'd come here to be alone, not to be reminded of the unfortunate consequences of his birth, nor be caught in this dangerous conversation with a man who could condemn him on a whim.

'I have more than a fair few boys and girls born on the wrong side of the bed,' the king grinned, bright blue eyes briefly alive. The sudden flicker of light cast a kinder shade across the man's face, and Jon could almost connect it with the stories of the king he had heard as a boy. 'They're taken care of well enough, but not so well as you are.' The man eyed him with surprising sobriety for someone who had drunk a full wineskin and more. 'He must have loved your mother, whoever the hell she was, to bear the consequences of raising you like this. Has he found an occupation for you, boy?'

'I have no place here, your Grace,' Jon answered nervously, almost as afraid of his honesty as he was of lying to the king.

'You're a Stark,' the king laughed. The sound was loud and out of place in the crypt. 'This white wasteland is where the Starks will always belong, and here is where they always end up, no matter how much they might hope for something different. Sometimes I wonder if Ned will melt if he crosses the Trident for more than a few months.'

'My name is Jon Snow, your Grace.'

'Sullen, stubborn boy, aren't you, just as bad as your father was,' the king growled. 'Better company than she is now though, and I'm drunk enough to talk like a fisherwoman on market day.'

His aunt's statue said nothing, of course, but the stone eyes seemed somehow more sad than they had.

'Are you not hunting today, your Grace?'

'I am sure they will think so,' the king snorted. 'The Kingslayer is no doubt halfheartedly searching for me, he's probably wondering which tree he will find his drunken king slumped underneath, and eventually he'll reach the right one, but I'll stay here for a little while before I let them find me.'

He was not half as drunk as he smelt, Jon realised, and he suspected that the king might have intended it that way. When the hunting party found him smelling of wine in the woods outside Winterfell with his horse they'd never guess where their lord had really been.

 _Nobody will tell the queen he spent half the day in front of the tomb of Lyanna Stark._

He'd been crying too. There faint, clear tracks in the dust on the kings countenance, and not all of the redness on his face was from the cold.

'If you've no place here, boy, you should go somewhere else,' the king stuffed the empty wineskin back into the waist of his breeches, 'else you might find yourself stuck on a throne, and they're damn uncomfortable things to sit on.'

'I intend to join the Night's Watch, your Grace.'

The king gave him a long incredulous look.

'Bloody fool thing to do,' he grumbled. 'Plenty of better ways to find yourself a name that isn't _snow_ without devoting yourself to freezing on the top of that godforsaken precipice until you've been forgotten. Better to die young and warm in red waters than watch yourself disappear, boy.'

'Yes, your Grace,' Jon said warily.

'Yes, your Grace,' the king mimicked moodily. 'Get out of here Jon Snow, this is a place for those whose lives are over, not boys like you. Do what young men should be doing, find yourself a sword, a girl, a cup of wine, and enjoy the summer.'

Robert Baratheon laughed, grim and dark, and for a moment, cast in the shadows of his crown, he looked as much a king as he should, tall, powerful with eyes that glinted deeper than they had any right to.

'For winter is coming,' he echoed mockingly, trailing one finger down the cold stone cheek of his long deceased betrothed.

Jon backed away and all but fled, more than happy to leave the king with his dead aunt, and half hoping that he would forget they had ever met, for Jon would certainly like to. He had the foreboding feeling that he might have been better off if he had not heard half of the things he just did.

The wolves were howling when he stepped through the ironwood door, still troubled, and a cloud of ravens swirled above the crimson leaves of the Weirwood as impossible to settle as his thoughts.

 _Damn the king for his words._

Jon had preferred him as a fat, foolish drunken lord. There was nothing to be afraid of then, nothing disturbing about a fur swaddled man swilling wine, but the bitter, shadow shrouded man who lingered among the dead made all the hair stand up down the back of Jon's neck. If the King was a stag, then he was one of the old ones who roamed the fist alone, adorned with scars, and bearing broken antlers.

The ones that turned up dead in the first heavy snows.

'The Night's Watch is an honourable calling,' he told himself, but desperation did not breed truth, and the words fell as flat as they always had. It did not help in the slightest that every man Jon had mentioned his ambition, his _solution_ to had found fault in it. Liars, thieves, rapists, murderers and worse they laughed, a boy like him would be swallowed whole, they assured him. The honour had long since gone in defending the Wall, the duty could performed by the condemned, did not, should not need him, not when he had his family.

 _They cannot all be wrong,_ he realised.

Even he wasn't that stubborn, but he almost wished he was, for he had nowhere better to go when his father went south but to the Wall.

 _Ignorance is bliss,_ he seethed moodily.

Sensing he was no longer alone Jon looked up into hot red eyes.

'Ghost,' he smiled, grateful to have company that did not speak of such things. 'Where have you been?'

The direwolf nipped at his fingers, cocking an ear as the howling began again, then collapsed back onto his haunches to stare sadly up at the the First Keep, and the lightning riven tower beyond it.

AN: Please read and review, thanks to everyone who does!


	4. Tyrion I

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

New chapter! I have discovered a competition on Inkitt for original works, and it's coincided with an idea that occurred to me, so I'm currently writing that as well as this. This isn't a hiatus warning or anything so drastic as that, but worst case scenario is no new chapter for a few weeks while I write that; I prefer original fiction to fanfiction, it feels more natural to write. Additionally, anyone who wants to read that story, (and hopefully vote for it!), will find it on Inkitt, details on how are on my profile. Please do vote if you like it, because if it does win then it gets published!

Anyway, here's the next chapter...

 **Tyrion I**

Two layers of furs, and the thickest cloak he had taken from Casterly Rock were barely enough to keep him reasonably warm as he waddled his way across the courtyard and into the Great Hall of Winterfell where the scalding waters of the hot springs heated the walls to a comfortable temperature.

His siblings were already sitting there, surrounded by the young princes and the princess. A crowd of gold hair and green gems, and his lips twitched a little at the sight of the five of them despite himself.

'You're up late,' Jaime remarked, kicking the bench out so that he could take a seat beside him.

'I went to offer my condolences to Lady Stark,' Tyrion explained. 'The maester claims the danger to the boy has passed, but the boy, Bran, has not yet woken.'

The young Stark lay silently in his bed, covered from toes to neck in furs, while his mother kept constant vigil beside him, waiting for her beloved son to come back. She had not, despite Tyrion's attempt to be as sensitive as he could, taken his offered condolences as well as he had hoped. Catelyn Stark had seemed almost wary about him being in the same room as her boy, but Tyrion could forgive her her grief.

'Is he going to be ok?' Myrcella, the sweetest of his sister's children, asked, eyes wide.

'I don't know, princess,' Tyrion smiled as kindly as he could, 'but we can hope that he is.'

Tommen nodded sweetly, studiously spooning bacon onto his plate, but his elder brother's upper lip curled.

'Weak things die,' he dismissed.

'Weak things do not survive falling so far,' Tyrion told him pleasantly, 'perhaps we should drop you from such a height and see how strong you are?'

The crown prince's eyes flashed angrily, and Cersei's slender fingers curled furiously around the stem of her glass.

'A prince does not say such things,' Tyrion told him, 'Rhaegar was the soul of courtesy.' He knew well enough that his sister had once dreamed not of stags but of dragons.

'Father killed the dragon prince,' Joffrey sneered.

'Go pay your respects,' Cersei tersely instructed her son, 'go with him, Tommen, Myrcella.'

'Yes, mother.'

The sneer slid back to his usual pout, and Joffrey strode from the hall, trailed by his siblings.

'I am surprised the boy is still alive after falling from so high,' Jaime said eventually.

'It might have been kinder if he had died,' Cersei murmured.

 _Kinder to who?_ Tyrion wondered.

'Perhaps the Gods wished him to be spared.' Tyrion shrugged, concealing a grin. 'Maybe one day he will do something important and change the fate of the Seven Kingdoms,' he continued with a grin.

His sister looked a little uncomfortable, exchanging a glance with her twin.

'I heard you intend to go North with Benjen Stark to see the Wall,' Jaime said.

I do,' Tyrion nodded, helping himself to wine, and the platter of small, crunchy fish. The fish were almost twice the size of the ones that swam in the rivers of the West. 'I always wanted to travel and see the world, so I shan't waste the chance to see the Wall. Even I shall feel tall standing atop it.'

Jaime smiled wryly, shaking his head. 'You did say you wanted to travel when we were younger.'

'You made a far finer castellan instead,' Cersei commented bitingly. She had not forgiven him for his chastising of her son.

'Ah, but sweet sister,' Tyrion grinned, more than familiar with her sharp tongue, 'those drains are more of Casterly Rock than you shall ever command.'

'I am Queen,' she reminded him acidly. 'I command the whole realm.'

'Try ordering our father to do anything,' Tyrion snorted, 'see how much of Casterly Rock the queen can sway. It's a pretty thing you wear sitting beside the king, but it's not the same crown, and it has not the same power.'

'Even Robert cannot command father,' his sister dismissed. 'If I had been born a man I would have been twice the son you are.'

'Why would father need another son?' Tyrion asked innocently. 'Between my mind and Jaime's sword we are the perfect pair.'

Cersei shot him a disgusted look, and swept from the bench in elegant disdain.

'Brother,' Jaime remonstrated, 'you should not bait our sister so.'

'But, dear Jaime,' Tyrion grinned, 'she paints such a target upon herself I find it hard to resist.'

His brother snorted and speared the last sausage upon his knife. It was some sort of blood sausage, dark and rich, and he watched enviously as Jaime devoured it in three deft bites.

'Ah, Kingslayer,' the king boomed from the end of the Great Hall, 'and the littlest lord of Lannister, I trust you haven't taken all the breakfast.'

He strode down the length of Winterfell's impressive hall, clad in silks and swaddled in furs, with Lord Stark beside him and trailed by the northman's wife and his guard. At some point he had misplaced his crown, and Catelyn Stark was holding, half-reverent, half-tentative as she followed, unsure whether to return it or not.

'There's more than enough, your grace,' Eddard Stark reassured him stiffly, and Tyrion fancied he saw the slightest hint of disapproval in the man's frigid expression. He could hardly blame Stark. Robert Baratheon was not the man he had once been.

 _He is twice the man he once was,_ Tyrion thought, eying the king's belly with a grin.

He slumped onto the bench across from Jaime, pouring a goblet of wine full to the brim and emptying it in a single motion.

'So have you decided?' The King demanded. 'You've had a day, Ned.'

'Perhaps this is not the proper place, your grace,' Eddard Stark began, glancing at him and his brother. It was no secret that Lord Stark was not fond of his family. Tyrion could hardly blame him. _He_ was not fond of his family, and he'd been with them long enough to grow numb.

'Nonsense,' the king bellowed, reaching for bread. 'If you say no then I shall have to inflict this honour on the Kingslayer, and if he's already here then I don't have to find him later.'

'I will come south,' Stark sighed, 'but I need time to organise things before I leave, to explain things to my children, and say goodbye.'

'Bring them with you,' the king shrugged, 'they should see something other than snow in the summer.'

'Robb must stay to learn, Winterfell will one day be his, Rickon is too young,' Lord Stark disagreed, 'and Bran…'

The King's face darkened momentarily, eyes glinting as he chewed. 'Bring the others then. The girls, and your other son.'

'Other son?' Catelyn Stark's head snapped up, fingers white around the golden circlet.

'Ah,' the king grinned obliviously, 'my headache, thanks Cat.' He plucked the crown from her fingers, and placed it upon his brows, shaking his head until settled comfortably.

'Other son?' Stark repeated quietly.

'Jon,' the king said too cheerfully, 'you have a lot of children, Ned, but surely you remember their names.'

Tyrion snickered quietly and Jaime flashed the Warden of the North a cutting smile. His brother had never forgiven Eddard Stark for judging him unworthy of his white cloak, nor, perhaps, for the death of his three brothers of the kingsguard.

'Jon would not be welcome at court,' Eddard Stark said slowly.

'Why not?' The king seemed blissfully unaware of Catelyn Stark's mounting fury. 'He's a sad, sullen boy, but no worse than you were, and better he come south than freeze to death on the Wall as he intends.'

There was a long silence as Eddard Stark exchanged a look with his wife, half-guilty, half-worried. No doubt Catelyn Stark would not take kindly to the proof of her husband's infidelity being paraded around King's Landing, but Tyrion was more captivated by the king's request.

 _Perhaps I have misjudged him._

Robert Baratheon made it sound like he wanted the boy to come south for no more reason than his own whims, but Tyrion fancied he might be less ignorant of Lady Stark's disdain than he seemed. Why the king was bothering to help Eddard Stark's bastard when he barely kept track of his own was beyond him, but he'd displayed more tact and cunning in the last minute than Tyrion had suspected he possessed.

 _That's worrying._

He could only guess at how many other moments had passed by unnoticed.

'He is a bastard,' Stark said finally, abandoning subtlety.

'So?' The king refilled his goblet. 'I wasn't suggesting you sit him next to your other children in the Red Keep, or by my side here in Winterfell, and risk offending some pompous idiot, make him a guard, the Hand of the King needs guards, and boys should not be so eager to throw their lives away.'

'If he wants to go North to the Wall we should let him,' Catelyn Stark suggested coolly.

Tyrion frowned, and the king's eyes briefly glinted dark, both of them were very much aware of why the boy might really want to go there, and how little it had to do with defending the realm from snarks and stray wildlings.

'He should come south,' he grinned, breaking the tension. The boy wasn't bad company, better than Cersei, and a bastard Stark might one day make a good friend for a Lannister. 'Together we can embarrass two of Westeros greatest lords.'

The king laughed. 'You would make a fine pair,' he chuckled, 'an ugly Lannister and a Stark's dishonour, people would come from the sunset isles to see you.'

'Still,' Eddard Stark said, clearly reluctant, 'he would have no place down south, and no future as a guardsmen.'

'I like him,' the king said abruptly, ending any argument. 'He says what he thinks; it reminds me of you, Ned, when you were younger. He comes south. A future will find him.'

'Yes, your grace,' Eddard Stark responded stiffly.

Tyrion grinned at the man's discomfort, noticing the slight wince away from his wife's gaze.

The king abandoned the table to visit the glass gardens moments later, claiming to want to purge the cold from his bones, and both Lord and Lady Stark left with him.

'Cersei won't be happy,' Jaime said after the doorway shut with hollow boom.

'Our sister is never happy,' Tyrion grimaced.

'She wanted me to be hand,' his brother said, 'not Stark, though he is preferable to many by far.'

'An honourable enemy, brother?' Tyrion had guessed as much already. Cersei liked to keep her twin close, and believed him more than any other man since Rhaegar had died on the trident.

'He dislikes Lannisters, especially me,' Jaime's lip curled. 'I for one am glad his bastard is coming south, Ned Stark's precious honour was not so important when he fathered him on some fisherwoman somewhere.'

'Fisherwoman?' Tyrion shot him a sceptical look, knowing that his brother did not believe that.

'There were rumours,' Jaime shrugged, 'but you are right. Ashara Dayne is who I heard, I asked one of the stable boys about her and he clammed right up and refused to say a word more to me.'

'Maybe he was overwhelmed by your reputation,' Tyrion laughed. 'You could be right,' Tyrion emptied his wine cup, 'he has more of a refined look than most of his half-siblings. If it's true he might take after his uncle.' He didn't really care who the boy's mother was, or even about him, but he felt a little sorry for him having to endure Catelyn Stark's contempt for all these years, and there were better ways to escape it than the Night's Watch.

'Either of his dead uncles would be a worthy measure,' his brother nodded, 'but there will never be another Sword of the Morning like Ser Arthur Dayne. That man could have cut his way through me and my current brothers in white without taking a scratch.'

'Do you think so poorly of yourself?' Tyrion jested.

Jaime snorted again and stood up. 'I shall go find Cersei and tell her of my great disappointment, try not to drink too much, or cause any more trouble with the Starks.'

Tyrion yawned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 _Jaime would make a very poor Hand of the King._

His brother's hands were meant for a blade, not for organising a realm while the real king drank his way towards an early grave, and he could tell just from the way Jaime was walking that he was relieved Eddard Stark had accepted the role himself.

Tyrion couldn't imagine any reason a man would ever want to be hand. He'd rather follow the king's example and drink, eat and whore himself until the pleasures of life wore him out; it would be quicker and more pleasant end than what the king had dubbed counting coppers.

He raised his legs and spun himself off the bench. There better things to do than sit alone when he could be wandering around Winterfell. The castle was one of the greatest in the seven kingdoms, older than the Red Keep, than Casterly Rock, the Twins, the Eyrie and any other great hold he could name. There had been stone towers over the springs here since the First Men had found them.

He turned out of the Great Hall into crimson eyes, stumbling backwards onto the floor in his surprise.

'Gods,' he swore, grateful that there was nobody to see.

The wolf was well-named.

When he made to push himself up the red-eyed beast padded closer, sniffing him curiously, then pausing to give him a hot, wet lick across his cheek before it lost interest and slipped away.

'Should be more considerate,' Tyrion grumbled. 'I helped save you and your master from the Wall.'

'Saved me from the Wall?'

Tyrion twisted round on the ground, springing to his feet and brushing the half-melted snow from his breeches.

'I should have known anywhere your wolf was you would be, boy,' he said wryly.

'Ghost seems to like you,' Jon Snow replied, eyes flicking to where the direwolf pup was watching them. 'The Wall?' He prompted.

'Lady Stark was most upset when the king decided you should come south,' Tyrion grinned. Vindictive satisfaction flashed across the bastard's face. 'Robert Baratheon is reminded of your father when he looks at you, and has decided to make sure you don't freeze to death watching for grumpkins.'

For an instant the boy looked quite disturbed, then he shrugged.

'Nothing to say?' Tyrion cocked an eyebrow. 'Not even happy to see Lady Stark embarrassed after all these years of being scorned by her.'

'Of course I am not,' Jon said evenly, 'she is my father's wife.'

'You can't lie to me, bastard,' Tyrion said. 'Your secret is the same as mine. I used to stare into the fire at Casterly Rock for hours, thinking of dragons, and how even I could look down at the world from atop one. Sometimes I would imagine it was my father in the flames, others, my sister.'

'I do not dream of fire,' the boy replied seriously, 'nor of dragons.'

'But you do not deny you have wished her gone.'

'I wished my mother would return, noble, beautiful, and kind, and that Lady Stark had found herself set aside for her,' Jon admitted, 'but I knew it would not be true.'

'And your half-siblings?' Tyrion asked, curious, 'were they set aside too.'

'Robb is the eldest.'

'Ah,' he grinned, 'you are your father's son.'

'Thank you.' The boy smiled for the first time since Tyrion had seen him, and the expression lifted his face, tilting his features into an almost handsome cast.

 _He is already more attractive than I will ever be,_ Tyrion thought sourly. _Would that my misfortune could be so easily washed away by the kindness of a king._

'It will not always be a compliment,' Tyrion warned grimly. 'Eddard Stark is good man, an honourable one, but not very smart.'

'Why not?'

'A smarter man would have said no to Robert Baratheon and remained home with his family.' Tyrion pointed at the Stark banner, the grey direwolf on its white background. 'Starks belong in the North,' he reminded the boy, 'nothing good has ever come of a Stark going south. Your grandfather, your uncle, your aunt.' Tyrion ticked off the three most recent, but there were more, ones who had styled themselves kings of winter, the last of whom had knelt before the dragonlords.

'Then it's a good thing I am not a Stark,' the boy said dryly.

The offhand remark caught him by surprise and he laughed, throwing back his head.

'You have too much wit to be a Stark,' Tyrion agreed.

AN: Please read and review, thanks to everyone who does, and sorry again for the delay!


	5. Jon IV

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

The next chapter! Oddly I managed to write this and the next chapter of my original fic for the Inkitt competition faster than when I was just writing this on its own. Still, I'm guessing you aren't going to complain about that!

Enjoy!

 **Jon IV**

It got warmer with each day they went south, the snow gave way first to the swamps of the Neck, where Arya had had to be locked in the carriage to keep her from hunting for lizard-lions, and then to the fields of the fertile riverlands.

Neither his little sister or Sansa seemed to mind the heat, but they did not enjoy it as Jon did, nor as the Queen. She had shed her furs for silk gowns the moment they crossed the Neck, and the emeralds and gold that had gleamed in the North, shone like stars in the southern sun.

Jon had no silks to trade for his leathers, but his furs were folded, or stuffed, given Arya's attitude to packing, into his little sister's empty luggage only a couple of days after their departure. He did not have the luxury of a carriage, but rode behind Jory, the captain of his father's guard, watching the grey cloak ripple and tug at the iron wolf's head clasp, and listening to the music that drifted back from the carriages at the front.

The Queen had demanded they stop for the day the moment they reached an acceptably comfortable inn by the banks of the ruby ford, and the king had given in with the air of man glad to have an excuse to stop. His stallion looked particularly grateful for the rest.

Without the Queen, her children, and the Lannister entourage his father and the Stark men had relaxed a little, and Arya had managed to convince their father to let him escort her to the ford to search for rubies.

She was still out there in the shallow waters, poking away in the silt with a stick, soaked from the stomach down from her splashing about in the river.

'Come and help me search, Jon,' Arya demanded.

'No,' he replied lazily from the bank. 'I don't need a ruby, and the chance of finding one is not great enough to lure me into that water.'

It might have been named the ruby ford, but the waters had only been coloured red once when the armies of the Dragon Prince clashed with the King's. Now they flowed a distinctive clay brown, and Jon did not want to spend a day riding in wet, silt coated breeches.

'You're a rubbish guard,' Arya accused.

'On the contrary,' he grinned, 'I am protecting you from anything that might come by, and I can't do that in the middle of the river.'

'Your eyes were closed.'

'I was listening out for bandits,' Jon countered cheerfully.

It would be a foolish bandit that attacked the two of them only a hundred yards from the king's retinue, no bandit had been so bold since the Smiling Knight, and he had only earned himself the Sword of the Morning in reward.

'Fine,' Arya scrunched up her face, 'I don't need a guard anyway, I have Nymeria.'

Arya's wolf was as wild as she was, following the party at the edge of the road by day, hunting with Ghost by night, but never straying too close to the fires when Arya was not nearby. Sansa's wolf, Lady, curled about her feet in the floor of the carriage, little more than a glorified rug.

The sound of metal-edged footsteps on pebbles caught his ear, and he turned, blade two inches from its sheath before he saw the white armour and cloak.

'The king wishes to speak to Lord Stark and his children,' the knight said, voice distorted by his helm.

'Time to go Arya,' Jon warned.

His little sister looked upset to be dragged away, but reluctantly waded back to the bank, hurling her stick out into the waters to float away downstream as all the rubies must have once done.

'You should probably change before you see the king,' Jon told her. 'You like a drowned rat.'

'A drowned wolf,' Arya disagreed as they traipsed back towards the party, 'and I don't want to see the king.'

'But the king wishes to see you,' Jon said, smiling widely as she scowled.

'Stupid king,' she muttered. 'Why don't you have to come and see him?'

'Because I am not fit company,' Jon explained mockingly, using the exact tone Lady Stark did when reprimanding her wayward younger daughter.

The knight of the kingsguard laughed, pulling his helm from his head, and the only Lannister who had not gone to the inn flashed him a sharp smile.

'The king wants to see Lord Stark and _all_ his children. He was quite insistent.'

'Ha,' Arya crowed, darting away to the carriage to change.

'Did he say why, ser?' Jon dared to ask. He had not enjoyed his last conversation with Robert Baratheon.

'No,' Jaime Lannister shrugged carelessly, 'and I did not ask. Your younger half sister is not as much of a lady is she?'

Jon frowned.

 _And you are not much of a knight._

He didn't say anything aloud. The Kingslayer was not a man he wanted as an enemy.

'You northmen aren't very talkative.'

'The cold chokes a man's words in his throat,' Jon said dryly. 'Starks are not known for their speeches or their humour.'

'You are not a Stark,' the Kingslayer said bluntly, but without any condemning inflection. He was studying Jon's features quite carefully, his bright emerald eyes scrutinising every detail.

'No,' Jon agreed, 'I am not, but I was raised among them.'

'Are you any good with a sword?' Jaime Lannister asked curiously.

'Better than my brothers,' Jon said proudly, 'and Arya.'

'Your sister.' Jaime Lannister laughed. 'The wild wolf reborn.' His face took a more serious cast. 'I am not surprised,' he said finally, 'perhaps one day we will find out how good you are.'

Jon swallowed hard at the idea of crossing blades with such a man, a shiver of cold trembling along his spine at the genuine desire in the Kingslayer's tone. He hoped he had not offended the knight somehow, though he could not guess at how he had.

'I am changed.' Arya reappeared at his elbow, clad in leather breeches and jerkin rather than a dress, and Jon sighed.

'The wild wolf indeed,' Jaime Lannister chuckled, 'this way little Stark. The king is by the river with your father.'

'Why did he send you to find us?' Jon inquired bravely.

'His grace likes to order me around,' the Kingslayer said with a slightly cold smile. 'Perhaps it is because I have killed as many Targaryens as he has, but still retain the ability to kill another dragon should they return.'

'The dragons are all dead,' Arya dismissed scornfully.

'The Targaryens are not,' the Kingslayer said calmly, 'and they have always claimed to be dragons in one manner or another. Across the Narrow Sea Viserys Targaryen and his sister are growing up remembering the death of their family and fall of their house. One day they will come for revenge.'

'They might not,' Arya objected, despite Jon's best attempt to warn her from replying.

'I think they will,' Jaime Lannister replied, 'who would let the man who destroyed their family sit easy on a stolen throne.' He paused. 'Not that you can sit easy on that chair. It's horribly uncomfortable.'

'You sat on it?' Jon could not help his curiosity.

'Just once.' The Kingslayer's face hardened, and neither he nor even Arya dared to ask anything else.

'Jon Snow,' the king boomed, kneeling at the bank only a little further down the river from where Arya had sought rubies. 'And you must be Arya Stark, Ned's youngest daughter.'

'I am.' Arya raised her chin defiantly much to her sister's horror, but Robert only laughed loudly, eyes softening for the briefest of moments.

'Thank you, Kingslayer,' the king dismissed.

Jaime Lannister stiffened, then stepped back out of hearing range.

'I heard you were searching for rubies from your sister?' The king asked.

'I didn't find any,' Arya scowled.

'Neither did I,' the king laughed. 'They'll be at the bottom of the sea by now, girl, I wouldn't waste your time.'

'Your grace,' his father prompted softly.

'Oh,' the king looked momentarily flustered, 'yes. Well you should tell them, Ned, they're your children.'

'The king and I have been discussing a proposal,' his father began slowly.

'Seven Hells, Ned,' the king cut in, 'you make it sound like the small council.' He stood up from the bank, brushing bits of reed from his silks. 'Your father and I were raised as brothers by Jon Arryn, he's more family to me than either of my real brothers, and I'd see us become family for real.'

 _He means to marry one of his children to one of my siblings,_ Jon realised.

He hoped the king had not chosen Arya, he could only imagine his little sister's response, and the outrage it could provoke.

 _She'd murder Joffrey in his sleep, and Tommen would be hiding from her in the sept before long._

'I think,' the king continued, glancing back at Arya, 'that the best match would be between my eldest son and your eldest daughter, Ned.'

'I'll be Joffrey's queen,' Sansa breathed dreamily, then blushed and pressed her hands over her mouth. His father shot her a worried look, not noticing the look of utter disgust on Arya's face.

'It seems she doesn't mind,' the king grinned. 'It's settled then, Ned.'

His father looked troubled, but nodded.

'I had half a mind to offer my eldest son to you, Little Wolf,' the king boomed, 'he'd become a very different man, but I have a better gift for you.' The fat king craned his neck past Jon's father, who looked increasingly more concerned, and slightly resigned. 'Kingslayer,' he called, 'did you find that dagger?'

'No, your grace,' Jaime Lannister admitted, 'but I selected a similar one instead.'

'Ah,' the king grunted, 'small loss, I have little use for any dagger.'

That was not true, Jon decided. The king used a knife more than any other blade, for he later almost six times a day, and only exceeded his appetite for food with his love of strong red wine.

'Here, Little Wolf,' the king grinned, plucking the blade from the Kingslayer's fingers and dropping it casually into Arya's palm. 'It's not quite Ice,' he said with a smile, 'but it's just as sharp, and will hold its edge just as well.'

His little sister slipped it from its sheath with little more than a whisper, eyes wide and grinning unseemly. A glitter of white teeth underneath her tangle of brown hair.

The blade was a rippling smoke-grey, three fingers wide, and wickedly curved.

 _Valyrian steel._

The Targaryen kings had hoarded the blades they could, claiming almost a score of ancestral blades from ruined houses, and while Jon was sure that the king had others like it this was no small token.

Sansa looked horrified, staring at her father as if expecting him to confiscate the blade from Arya.

Jon's father likely had much more sense than that; Arya would steal it back, likely within hours, and that was if he managed to separate the two of them in the first place.

'Thank you, your grace,' his little sister beamed, remembering her courtesies for the first time in her gratitude. Jon snorted quietly, catching the eye of the Kingslayer who had been nonchalantly eying the dagger, Arya, and the king, but now indicated the iron knife beside the king's wine cup in mock offering.

Jon grinned, and shook his head ever so slightly.

'Come on, Kingslayer,' the silk swaddled monarch waved his hand impatiently, 'I have spent enough time on the banks of this river.'

Jaime Lannister fixed a well practiced mask of indifference upon his face and followed the king back along the bank his white cloak trailing in the mud.

'Are you going to let her keep it, father?' Sansa burst out.

Arya scowled at her sister and tucked the dagger through the waist of her breeches, folding her arms protectively over it.

'I don't see why not,' his father said mildly. 'It was an expensive gift, and one from the king.'

'But ladies don't carry daggers,' Sansa protested, aghast.

'I'm not a lady,' Arya spat, 'and you're just jealous because the king didn't give you anything.'

'He gave me his son,' Sansa retorted. 'I'm going to marry Prince Joffrey and live in the Red Keep and eat lemon cakes and our children will all be princes and princesses.'

'They'll all be as ugly as Joffrey and as empty-headed as you are,' Arya hissed. 'The kingdom will be ruined.'

'Shut up,' Sansa cried.

'That's enough from both of you,' their father said sternly. 'Arya, Sansa is getting everything she wants, be happy for her, and Sansa, your sister is like mine was, and Lyanna was once crowned the queen of love and beauty.'

 _By a mad prince who stole her and raped her,_ Jon grimaced.

Neither Sansa nor Arya were old enough to understand that, but he was, and his father shot him a warning glance when he noticed his dark expression.

Sansa pulled a smile on her face. 'yes, father,' she said sweetly.

'Fine,' Arya grumbled.

'Good.' His father took Sansa's arm and leg her gently back towards the camp and its comforts. 'Stay with Arya, Jon,' he ordered gently as he left.

'I have a better blade than you now,' his little sister grinned, pulling it from her waist and brandishing it wildly in his face.

Jon took a prudent step back. He was too young for facial scars.

'That's not how you hold a dagger,' he pointed out.

'How?' She demanded.

'Like this.' He wrapped his hand over hers, adjusting her fingers on the hilt. 'See?'

Arya swung it cheerfully at a nearby reed, severing it in two blows.

'Daggers are used for stabbing,' Jon told her. 'You put the point between the plates of a knight's armour and push.'

'He dies?'

'If you found the right gap and push hard enough,' Jon nodded, 'but you won't be fighting any knights.'

'Why not?' She pouted.

'Because,' he grinned, 'you're going to be a lady, and the only stabbing you will be doing is embroidery.'

'I hate needles,' Arya scrunched up her nose, 'but this will be very good for cutting lemon cakes.' She beamed suddenly. 'Can you imagine Sansa's face when she sees me eating her favourite lemon cakes with this.'

He knew he should dissuade her, perhaps by telling her it was likely that the dagger, which was probably as old as the seven kingdoms, had killed many men, or at least tasted blood, and so made quite a disturbing item of cutlery, but he didn't have the heart.

He quite wanted to see Sansa's face too.

'Can I see your sword?' Arya demanded suddenly.

'Bored of your own dagger?' Jon asked, amused.

'No,' she shook her head violently, 'I want to compare them.'

'Here,' Jon unsheathed the simple steel blade that hung from his waist, 'but be careful with it. If you cut anything off yourself or me I will be sent back to Winterfell and then on to the Wall by Lady Stark.'

Arya held the blade out with one arm, muscles trembling from the weight of it until Jon put a hand under the tip to take some of the weight from her.

'It's so heavy,' Arya scowled. 'How can you swing it around so fast.'

'Practice,' Jon smirked, 'and because I'm not as skinny as you, Little Wolf.'

'Don't call me that,' Ary scowled, 'I'm not little.'

'I think it suits you.'

'Stupid king,' Arya mumbled, 'why did he even call me that.'

 _Because you remind him of our aunt._

'Maybe he thinks you're skinny too,' Jon suggested lightly, 'and you are a Stark.'

'You'd be the Sad Wolf,' Arya decided.

'Why?' Jon asked curiously, ignoring the fact that he should not be a wolf at all.

'Because you always look miserable,' she frowned, 'even when you're not.'

'It's the northman's face,' he grinned, 'the cold freezes you like this after a winter or two. When you're older you will look like this as well.'

'I will not,' she protested. 'None of our other brothers look sad like you, and I'm only a few years younger.'

Jon tousled her hair, reclaiming and sheathing his sword.

'We should head back,' he prompted. 'There are no rubies, the king is probably right about them being washed out to sea.'

'Nymeria,' Arya called, looking around.

The wolf bounded from the reeds, covered in mud and water from head to toe, and came to push her nose into Arya's stomach. Ghost stalked quietly within the edge of the reeds, less keen on the water than his sister. They were growing fast, Nymeria would be taller than Arya in a few months at this rate, and Ghost was longer and leaner than her.

'Now you'll have to change again,' Jon sighed, tipping his head in the direction of the wide, brown streaks across her breeches.

'They're only clothes, and my skin can be washed. Nymeria doesn't care.'

'Nymeria is a wolf.'

'Sometimes,' his little sister replied distantly, 'so am I.'

Jon paused.

 _Does she dream of the hunting too?_ He wondered.

He had. More than once. The soft earth and the whisper of the leaves beneath his feet. The scent of men, horses and iron in the day, and of deer and rain in the night. Only this morning he had been woken for his watch to find the taste of blood still on his tongue.

Bran had complained of dreams like his before he fell.

He'd spoken of hunting, of running through the Godswood in Winterfell, but he'd also dreamt of flying, of black feathers and men in bronze, dancing dragons, fire as bright as stars, frozen ashes beneath crimson leaves, and kisses cold enough to freeze a heart.

 _They are just dreams._

'Jon,' Arya tugged insistently at his sleeve, irritated that he had not been listening. 'What are you going to be doing when we get to King's Landing?'

'Guarding,' he replied vaguely, honestly unsure what his role would be.

 _Finding a future._

'Guarding who? Father?'

'Probably you,' he grinned. 'Father has Ice and Jory and two score men of his own as well as me, but he'll need someone who can find you to keep his Little Wolf out of trouble.'

'You always find me,' Arya scowled. 'You and Bran.'

'You should hide better.'

The reeds gave way to the stones of the ford and the waters of the trident spread shallow beside them and the makeshift camp that had been erected so that the king might be able to hunt while he waited for his wife to catch up with the party the following morning.

'You cheat,' Arya decided. 'You get Ghost to help you.'

'You could use Nymeria,' Jon reminded her.

'She won't,' Arya frowned, pulling a face, the one Sansa had unkindly nicknamed her horseface for.

'Well I can't be blamed for that,' Jon said. 'You'll have to persuade her better, train her like Lady.'

'No,' his little sister pulled a disgusted face, 'I want Nymeria to be a wolf, not a lapdog. She just follows Sansa around like a lost puppy. If someone tried to hurt me Nymeria would tear off their arm.'

Jon frowned at that. It was all too true. Nymeria was the wildest of the wolves after Rickon's. She harmed nobody, but was loyal to, and answered only to Arya, who did little to restrain her nature. Even Jon had taught Ghost a few things, mainly not to soil the floor of his rooms, and while he was sure Ghost would defend him from any threat there was something about Nymeria that suggested she would enjoy hunting men as much as deer if the mood took her.

AN: Please read and review, thanks to everyone who does! And I still encourage you all to take a moment to read and vote for my fic on Inkitt, if even half of the people who follow this drabble vote for my story I'll have done really well, and I still have a faint hope of winning it, however unlikely it does seem, and getting the story published.

P.S. I have now planned out the general plotline of this story from beginning to end, but I am aware that it's only 27 days (as of when I type this) until the new series of A Game of Thrones, which moves beyond A Dance of Dragons in the storyline, so some things may turn out to be different!


	6. Tyrion II

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

The next chapter! The further I get into trying to write this the more I come to realise just how long it must have taken GRRM to actually build this from scratch, and frankly it's quite daunting. There's more detail and backstory than in any other universe of it's kind. Still, onwards and upwards!

Enjoy!

 **Tyrion II**

If he had ever thought that Winterfell was cold he did not anymore. The ragged weary men that had trudged behind the horses of himself had started shivering only a few days beyond the gates of Winterfell. Most were from the south. There was the look of King's Landing about many of them, and the city rhythm to their speech.

Murders. Thieves. Rapists. Slavers. They were the swords that defended the realm. One set of wildlings against another.

 _May the cold take them all,_ Tyrion swore, wrapping his arms about his chest.

The cage creaked, chains rattling in the wind.

It was a long way down to the Haunted Forest. Further even than it had seemed the first time he had come up to watch the sunrise and see Benjen Stark disappear into the gnarled, tangled dark fingers of the trees.

This, he imagined, was what looking down from the back of a dragon might be like.

 _Only less cold._

Dragons were fire, and sitting atop one would be far less miserable than standing on this precipice of stone and ice, staring out at the part of the world even the gods did not want to touch and waiting for thrice-damned cage to come.

'It is less warm upon the Wall this morning.'

Mormont. The old bear. Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and every bit as stern and unrelenting as the cold that swirled past them. White, scraggly hair buffeted about his chin, and the beady-eyed nuisance of a raven that always accompanied him had dug its claws deep into the folds of his cloak to keep its footing.

'Is it ever?'

'There have been summers like no other in recent years,' the old bear told him grimly. 'Some days we could nearly see the stones of the wall itself.'

'Would that it was summer now,' Tyrion complained.

'For a little man you feel the cold more than most.'

'I was born in the West at the height of summer above green fields and in a swaddling cloth of red and gold,' Tyrion remarked wryly. 'There is no winter in me.'

'You think this is winter?' Jeor Mormont laughed. 'You men of the south are all the same, you see snow and think the world will never be warm again. This is summer, maybe autumn, when winter comes you will know.'

'I will not,' Tyrion told him with a grin. 'I will be sitting in Casterly Rock with a cup of wine, far from your wind and your snow.'

The cage creaked to rest at the ledge.

It rocked gently as they stepped inside, and Tyrion, well aware of how spectacular the view was from so high, cast an uneasy glance through the bars.

 _Strange how a child never fears falling from a dragon's back, but a man does from such a box as this._

'Nobody has ever fallen that I have heard of.' Mormont was not so dull as he looked.

'I hope you are still right by the time we read the bottom, else you shall make a splendid red stain upon the snow and I a slightly smaller one.'

The old man snorted.

'You are a smart man, Tyrion Lannister,' he said bluntly. 'What do you think of the Watch?'

'The Wall is impressive,' he replied. 'I did not believe it could be so high.'

'It was not the Wall I asked about.'

 _No,_ Tyrion knew, _but I did not want to offend you._

'I shall not throw you from the gates,' the old bear assured him. 'I waited until we were alone in this little cage so you could speak freely.'

'You have fewer brothers than I expected,' he said.

'And few enough of them are truly men of the watch,' Mormont grimaced. 'I have seen the records, the writings of previous Lord Commanders. They had thousands at their disposal, garrisoned almost every castle along the long leagues of the Wall.' He snorted again. 'I can garrison three.'

'Three,' the bird at his shoulder cawed, every bit as mocking as the old man.'

'Hush,' Mormont chided the raven, flicking its beak gently.

'You are afraid of the grumpkins?' Tyrion asked, amused.

'It is men I fear, little lannister, cold, hard, hungry men, thousands of them, there are fewer than a thousand men of the black now, and fewer still who took those vows willingly. The rangers return less and less, our eyes are failing, our strength dwindling. If the King-Beyond-the-Wall comes south we will struggle to stop him.'

'The Wall is high,' Tyrion dismissed as the cage set itself upon the ground with a hollow thud and the clanking of chains.

'What is a wall when there are no men to guard it.' The fingers of the old bear's hand strayed to the worn hilt of his blade as he walked, pausing to let Tyrion's strides catch him up every few paces.

 _Longclaw,_ Tyrion knew it to be.

The blade of House Mormont. A sword of valyrian steel, spell-forged. One that should have been passed down to his son, but Jorah Mormont had been a disappointment.

'I could do with men like we used to have, young, brave, dutiful, even one might do. For the others might be scum, the dregs of the dungeons, or the cast offs of greater sires, but they can still follow well enough.'

'No young men dream of the Wall and a black cloak.'

'Not anymore,' Mormont agreed sternly, fixing him with a stare every bit as beady as his raven, 'I understand that I have you to thank for that.'

'King Robert too,' Tyrion said, apportioning fair blame.

'That's not the way Benjen told it to me. The idea was not the king's, he said, but Tyrion Lannister's, and Jon would have made a good brother too.'

'I have a soft spot in my heart for things that are broken,' Tyrion agreed.

'Then when you find yourself in the south speak your piece to whoever will listen before the Wall falls to the wildlings.'

'I hope you do not expect Robert Baratheon to listen.'

'No,' Jeor Mormont said, 'but his Hand might. Eddard Stark is an honourable man.'

Eddard Stark might well listen, and the king would listen to him, but who would the ever righteous Ned Stark send to the Wall.

 _Lannister men,_ Tyrion mused.

If he were the northern lord he would send Gregor Clegane up here and stick his oversized silhouette upon the Wall for the wildlings to aim at. His little band of followers too. His father would be furious at the loss of the Mountain, but there would be little he could do. In fact, a small smile touched Tyrion's lips, there would be nothing at all, for for all the fear his father wielded he had few friends.

 _Would it not align the lion against the North, the East, the Riverlands and Dorne I might even suggest it myself._

Ned Stark would never think of it himself, and nobody who could would gain anything under the rule of an honest man.

'Maester Aemon wished to speak with you again before you left,' the old bear told him brusquely. 'Best see him now before it is too late.'

'Too late,' the raven echoed, over and over. ' _Late, late, late, late.'_

Tyrion afforded the nuisance a dark look. Were he not concerned about making it back to see a sun strong enough to feel he would pluck the silly thing raw and feed it to one of the Stark's wolves.

As if sensing the danger the bird fluttered out of reach and after Mormont, darting back through the window of the Lord Commander's turret.

Tyrion grinned at his small victory and waddled away across the snow towards the library.

He'd spoken to Maester Aemon only once, in the hall after Ser Alliser had stormed from the table while the men of the watch laughed at their brother's humiliation at the hands of one so much smaller than himself.

 _A blind maester can only judge a man's size by his words, my lord, and I think you are not so small as others might believe._

The old maester was not in the library beneath the castle, and though Tyrion was tempted to linger there to explore he had not the time. It was well known that the library at Castle Black held scrolls and books that were the envy of even the citadel and Oldtown. Writings that held secrets maesters would trade limbs for.

It was a long way back up from the vaults to the rookery, not nearly so far as it was up to the Wall, but Tyrion had only had to stand in the cage and not look down to arrive at the summit of the precipice. He had to climb every step towards the library, and more than once he had to pause to regain his breath.

'Lord Tyrion,' the old master murmured when he waddled through the door, still breathing unevenly.

'Mormont said that you wanted to speak with me,' he said shortly, 'I hope it is important enough for me to have walked up all those steps.'

He did not ask how the blind man had known it was him. The old maester's hearing was as sharp as his mind remained.

 _Jaime's blade would be jealous._

'Knowledge is more important than all the gold in the world,' Aemon replied mildly, 'would that more men understood that.'

'What knowledge do you have for a dwarf then, maester?' Tyrion asked. 'If you have by some chance discovered a cure for my ailment then my father may well make you the first maester to be able to test whether gold is worth more than knowledge.'

'If Tywin Lannister parted with so much gold out of gratitude at what my knowledge had wrought then I would already have the answer.'

Tyrion frowned. It was not often he found himself outmatched in a battle of wits. Neither of his siblings had ever had much love for books. There was rarely any power to be found in their pages, nor would reading have taught Jaime to swing a sword half so well.

'Do you know what the links on a maester's chain represent?' Aemon fingered the one that encircled his own neck; it was the longest Tyrion had ever seen, and he glimpsed gold, copper and even valyrian steel among the many metals there.

'A link is added for each subject a maester has studied.'

'I knew a boy who dreamt of having a chain like this,' Aemon said quietly, 'he dreamt of learning everything a man ever could, but one day he learnt something that changed his mind, and he set aside his books for a blade. He believed that he would be worth less if he remained a seeker of knowledge, but I think that in doing so he made a mistake, just as I once did.'

Tyrion ground his teeth. He respected the man, for he was clearly both wise, and kind, but Maester Aemon was being annoyingly, deliberately obtuse.

 _What is your point, old man?_

'Winter is descending, my lord,' the maester sighed. 'I have seen many, and felt more, this one will be cold, colder than any in memory, and the Wall was not built to keep out wildlings but the Winter itself.'

'You are actually afraid of the snarks?' Tyrion grinned. Mormont had worried about the King-Beyond-the-Wall, but the maester seemed concerned about the other things, the monsters that lived in the stories of wetnurses and old women.

'Most of my order look down upon the study of this subject,' he tapped the valyrian steel link, 'but, when I run my hands over this chain in the cold of the night, this is the only link that remains warm.'

'You want me to help Mormont?' Tyrion guessed.

'The right words in the right place may do more good than a thousand swords, though it may be swords we need here at the end of the world.'

'I'll mention it.'

He had already promised to do as much.

Tyrion doubted his father would care much for the troubles of the Wall. In fact he rather suspected that he might encourage them, for of all the houses of the realm only a few could hope to challenge his, and the greatest of them held a seat much further north than Casterly Rock.

'Have you seen the comet?' Maester Aemon asked him, sensing his scepticism.

'It is hard not to these days,' Tyrion replied.

The thing was Lannister crimson, smeared bright and high across the sky day and night.

'Mormont's Torch the brothers are calling it, the Fire in the Darkness too, but,' the maester ran his fingers over the valyrian steel link, 'I fear they are only half right. The red comet is a herald, it comes before a new king to warn of fire and blood.'

'Or blood and fire?' Tyrion wondered aloud. There was a dragonlord across the water, one who would remember the throne that might have been his, and one who might find more friends than he thought in the seven kingdoms.

'To the common people they are the same. The boy I knew forgot that when he left his library.'

'That boy?' Tyrion asked curiously. 'What happened to him?'

'He thought the comet would herald a prince,' the old maester said quietly, 'and he tried so hard to fulfil that promise that it destroyed him.'

'Only a fool dies for a red light in the sky,' Tyrion dismissed.

'The death of a fool can have devastating consequences, my lord,' the maester murmured, 'for even a fool can light a fire and hold back the cold.'

'Or a dwarf,' Tyrion grinned. 'Perhaps when the grumpkins come they will think I am one of them and I shall be spared.'

He was sick of cryptic words and tired from the cold. The Wall was what he had come here for, to look over the edge of the world, and he had done it.

'Winter does not distinguish between fools and dwarves, I think,' Aemon said.

'Nor does my father.' Tyrion pinched the bridge of his nose. 'I can see why your hair turned white with nothing but such heavy thoughts to occupy you.'

'Old men are drawn to such serious things,' the maester was smiling oddly, 'but my hair has always been white.'

Tyrion blinked.

 _Surely not._

'I would not have thought to find a dragon at the wall,' he remarked at last.

'I am a maester, and a man of the Night's Watch,' Aemon said tiredly, 'there are no dragons anymore.'

 _He watched his family die from this precipice and he could do nothing._

Tyrion would have done the same, but not for love of his duty.

'I'll see what my words can do,' he promised. 'Winter or not, there are wildlings, and few men here in black to watch for them from the Wall.'

AN: Please read and review, thanks to everyone who does! And I still encourage you all to take a moment to read and vote for my fic on Inkitt. This one is a little shorter than the chapters of my other story, but I think the narrative style suits many short chapters better than fewer long ones.


	7. Jon V

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

New chapter posted! Enjoy...

 **Jon V**

The day they rode through the gates into the city it felt like he had stepped into another world. He had never seen such a sight. The buildings stretched as far as the eye could see and above them towered the Red Keep, looming atop the highest of the three hills.

He rode beside Jory, between the king, his father, the white-armoured knights of the Kingsguard, and the rest of the column that trailed almost half a mile back to where the last of the wagons rumbled. It was a rather fitting spot for him, and he had found himself quite enjoying the irony of it while he watched Ghost flit through the trees at the edge of the road.

When they reached the gates of King's Landing everything had changed.

The first thing he had noticed was the smell.

The city reeked of all manner of things, but Jon had had better sense than try to label the separate stenches and tugged the collar of his shirt up under his mail to mask the smell with the strong tang of iron and leather. Ghost had slunk alongside the flank of his horse, whining softly at all he unfamiliar scents. His sisters were within the carriage with Sansa and Arya; it had taken Jon and Arya the best part of an hour to convince Nymeria to stay in the carriage instead of roaming free.

After he had grown used to the wave of stink that had assaulted him he'd been able to take in the sights more freely, eyeing the smoke-darkened, ruined dome of the Dragonpit that loomed over the twisting maze of cobbled streets.

Their party had made straight towards the Red Keep, moving from the Dragon Gate past the Sept of Baelor the Blessed and up Aegon's hill.

Riding between the parties had placed him perfectly to watch Sansa's disgust at the smell and Arya's fascination at their new surroundings. There had been a short fight as his little sister re-opened the curtains at the carriage window after Sansa had wrenched them shut, but it seemed Arya had lost that battle for he had seen nothing of her until they had reached the Keep itself and the party had spilt out onto the square within the seven towers.

Maegor the Cruel's keep was an intricate, turreted maze of red stone, but for all its splendour and size Jon judged it smaller than Winterfell.

He swung himself out of his saddle and led the horse across to where Jory and the other members of his father's guard had gathered on the far side of the yard from the Kingsguard and the crimson draped Lannister men.

'Jon,' Jory waved him over, passing the reigns of Jon's horse to the nearest stableboy. 'Your lord father has left instruction for everything to be moved to the Tower of the Hand, but he had to attend a meeting of the small council, so Vayon Poole is attempting to organise everything before he returns.'

'Everything?' He eyed the carriage in which his little sister was still sitting with all the patience of a caged wolf.

'Everything,' Jory grinned. 'Follow the trail of Sansa's luggage to find their rooms.'

'I hate you.'

'She might come quietly,' Jory laughed.

They both knew how unlikely that was. Arya had a whole city to explore, and she wasn't going to appreciate being ushered inside to sit around with Sansa, Jeyne Poole and the septa one little bit.

'Just don't lose the wolf,' Jory warned. 'The last thing we need is for Nymeria to eat someone.'

'Not even Joffrey?'

'Only if she gets away with it,' Jory decided.

'Ghost,' he called.

The white wolf curled up on the floor beside the stables, pointedly directing his crimson eyes away from Jon.

 _Traitor._

With a quiet groan Jon turned away to approach the carriage, one hand on the hilt of his sword so that it did not trip him as he walked.

'Sansa, Jeyne, Little Wolf,' he mussed Arya's hair playfully, 'our father has decided you should move into your new rooms in the Tower of the Hand straight away.'

Arya scowled, and Nymeria, whose head had risen the moment the door opened, looked no more impressed.

'Thank you,' Sansa replied, all false, sweet courtesy.

'Come one then,' he offered politely, stepping back from the door.

Sansa disembarked elegantly, raising her skirts to avoid falling on the steep stairs. She was shadowed by Jeyne who always did her best to imitate Jon's half sister in everything she did.

'Lady,' she commanded nervously.

The direwolf trotted obediently after its mistress, loping down the steps to hover at her heels.

'Don't even think about it,' Jon warned Arya, catching her glancing at the gate back out to the city. 'I am not explaining to our father that his youngest daughter has disappeared into King's Landing.'

She scowled again, jumping out of the carriage onto the cobbles without sliding on the smooth, hot stones. Nymeria bounded down to join her, ears pricked and golden eyes roving over the square towards the stables.

'Where are you staying?' Arya asked curiously, peering into empty rooms as they passed them.

'Jon will be staying with the other guards, silly,' Sansa sighed, exchanging a pitying look with Jeyne who unsuccessfully stifled a giggle. 'Honestly, Arya, it's obvious.'

'But Jon isn't just a guard,' Arya protested. 'He's our brother.'

Sansa wrinkled her nose and slipped daintily into the room where her things, a great pile of dresses in blue and clay-red, lay upon the bed. Jeyne squeezed in after her, pushing the door closed with a smile once Lady had scurried in to join them.

The whispering broke out before they had managed more than a few steps, and Nymeria's ears pricked up at the slight susurration as she slunk behind the two of them.

'She's so horrible,' Arya burst out after a moment. 'All she cares about is gossiping with empty-headed Jeyne and eating sweets.'

'Hush,' Jon smiled at her fondly, 'she's still your sister.'

'She wants to be like the Queen,' Arya grumbled, 'she won't stop talking about how pretty and perfect she is, and how unfair it is that she has to be married to the king.'

'I don't think Sansa wants to be like the Queen,' Jon remarked more seriously, remembering Cersei Lannister's thin-lipped glare and cold, green eyes. 'She wants to be pretty, she wants everyone to think she is pretty, and she wants to live in a castle with whichever handsome lord or chivalrous prince her lady mother chooses-'

'She wants to marry _Joffrey,_ ' Arya laughed, 'their children would be the stupidest people ever born.'

'You nearly ended up being the one to marry Joffrey,' Jon reminded her with a smirk.

'I would not have married him,' Arya looked thoroughly disgusted. 'I don't want to marry anyone, but especially not Prince Pouty.'

Jon chuckled, indicating the door to Arya's own room.

'I don't want to be a queen like she is,' Arya continued. 'I'd be a Wolf Queen, like the Starks used to be before the Dragons came.'

 _A Queen of Winter,_ Jon remembered from what he had read in Winterfell's library.

For some reason the thought gave him chills. Arya, his little sister, was not born for crowns and thrones, not even ones of ice and iron. Their weight would wear her away.

'You would be a terrible queen,' Jon agreed, hiding his discomfort and pushing her lightly through the door into the room that would be hers. 'All your subjects would think you were a boy.'

'I'm not a boy,' Arya groused. 'Every winter rose should have thorns,' she smiled triumphantly.

'That's the only line you know,' he laughed, melancholy forgotten. 'And I still think you made it up.'

'It's good line, Jon,' she grinned, twitching restlessly. 'Father told me a prince said it.'

'Father told Jory that you and your sister were to stay here,' Jon reminded her. Arya had taken no more than a few steps from the door, and not removed her boots or the blade at her waist as she would if she intended to stay.'

'What am I supposed to do in here?' She demanded, scowling around at the bare walls.

'Unpack,' Jon grinned, pointing at the handful of unopened trunks, 'and be good, Arya, no real roaming for at least a few days.'

His little sister flopped dramatically back onto the bed, tugging the dagger the king had gifted her with from where she had pushed it through the belt of her breeches and turning the naked blade over and over in her hands.

'I'll be good,' she promised eventually.

'I don't believe you,' Jon laughed, 'but when you do sneak out make sure not to get lost and you mustn't leave the Red Keep, it's not safe for you to be alone in the city.'

'Fine,' Arya pouted. 'Bye brother,' she smiled innocently.

Jon snorted and mussed her hair again.

'Bye, Little Wolf.'

He retraced his footsteps back towards Jory and the courtyard with Arya's half-hearted glare on his back.

'Lost her already?' Jory grinned, clapping him on the back.

'I left her safe and sound in her room,' Jon said dryly.

'I'm _sure_ we'll find her there,' Jory sniggered.

'Some captain of the guard you are,' Jon grimaced.

'Ah,' Jory sighed, 'but being captain comes with so many perks, like not having to do any heavy lifting.' He waved a cheerful hand at the other grey-garbed guards who were ferrying trunks into the tower.

They seemed only marginally less burdened than their crimson cloaked counterparts who were carrying the Queen's possessions towards the royal rooms in the Red Keep.

Two of the Kingsguard leant against the entrance through which they bustled, one remained stiff and attentive, helm on and fingers resting on the hilt of his blade, but the Kingslayer languished against the arch, helm tucked under his arm, disinterestedly watching the activity before him. Jaime Lannister looked very bored with his role as a guard and Jon felt a twinge of apprehension at the idea that he too might have to endure such boredom.

'Drink?' Jory proffered his wineskin.

Jon eyed it warily. 'Did you buy this when you were drunk?'

'No,' Jory looked a little hurt, 'it's definitely not vinegar this time.'

'All the same…' Jon trailed off, still not reaching for the offered skin.

'It's that or carrying boxes,' Jory warned.

'In that case…' Jon sighed and took a couple of gulps from the skin.

It wasn't as bad as the last time Jory had offered him drink. The wine was strong, red, and cheap, as bitter as the truth, but it held enough of a hint of grapes about it to be drinkable.

'See,' Jory grinned, plucking it from Jon's fingers, 'not so bad.'

'I prefer sweeter vintages,' Jon admitted.

'Summer wine,' the captain nodded, a twinkle in his eye.

Ghost crept across the cobbles to push his nose against Jon's fingers. He had grown by a half hand's length on the journey down to King's Landing alone, and despite once being the runt of the litter he now stood half a head taller than all his siblings save Grey Wind.

'He's not so little now,' Jory said, echoing Jon's thoughts. 'Gods know how he's so quiet when he's grown so damn big.'

'Light footed,' Jon smirked.

'Like your little sister,' Jory smiled, nodding his head in the direction of the Tower of the Hand and the open window to her room. 'Brandon is not the only who can climb.'

'Are you going to look for her?' Jon asked.

'I won't find her,' Jory sighed.

'The Wild Wolf has vanished has she?' Jory's face froze over faster than puddles in Winterfell's Godswood in winter.

'Ser,' he inclined his head.

'Jon Snow.' The Kingslayer eyed him curiously, his gaze slipping to the blade at his waist then back up his to face. 'A knight should have a better blade than that.'

'I am not a knight.'

'Did you need something, Ser Jaime?' Jory asked stiffly.

'Entertainment,' the white-armoured Lannister shrugged, 'my sister took half of Casterly Rock to King's Landing and half of that again came north. It's boring watching them cart it back and forth.'

'What sort of entertainment does a guard and a bastard give a knight?' Jon asked dryly.

'Not the kind you would if I were Renly,' Jaime Lannister said, flashing a sharp smile. 'Come with me, Jon Snow. The king gave one of your sisters a prince, and the other a dagger. You got nothing.'

'Have you come to offer me a table knife?'

'No,' the Kingslayer's laugh was earnest, 'but I can give you a story.'

'Jon,' Jory warned.

'I won't harm him,' Jaime Lannister dismissed, stepping towards the way up to the battlements. 'I'd be bored again if I killed him, and there's little point in killing boys.'

'Ghost,' Jon murmured just in case, following the knight after a moment's thought.

The direwolf trailed him, hot eyes fixed on the billowing white cape of the kingsguard.

The Kingslayer was staring out over the city when Jon caught up to him.

'Have you ever seen a finer thing?' Jaime Lannister asked. 'Half a million people's lives all entwined together within a handful of miles of stone.'

'It smells,' was all Jon could think to say.

'Politics stinks,' the Kingslayer said derisively. 'If there is anything I share with Eddard Stark it is that I have no interest in the intrigue here. A man needs only two things to live, a sword to live by, and a beautiful woman to dream of.'

'You have a white cloak,' Jon remarked curiously.

'And a white sword.' The Kingslayer's smile was strangely bitter. 'Aerys the Mad gave it to me.'

'You gave it back,' Jon was brave enough to say.

'I drove it through his back,' Jaime Lannister's lips twisted, 'he bled out on the floor in front of his throne just like any other man would have. There's nothing different about a king save the crown on his head, and when I cut down Aerys that shiny circlet rolled across the floor of the throne room like a child's toy.'

'Is that the story you were going to tell me?'

'No.' The Kingslayer's bright green eyes shifted from the city down to his gilded blade and up to the white-flagged tower on the far side of the Red Keep. 'Back when I was barely more than a squire I was a boy in a white cloak who thought vows made you strong. I prattled hollowly about honour until I came across a knight who smiled. He was a monster cloaked in chivalry, a nightmare anointed by the Seven, as mad as the dragons, and better with a blade than any of them. When I crossed swords with him I stopped being a boy and became a knight. Do you want to know what I learnt?'

'Is that the point of the story?'

'The point of the story is to keep me from being bored,' Jaime Lannister smiled slyly. 'Before that moment I had been anointed, won tourneys, I was born a Lannister, the chivalrous son of a lord, the handsome son of a lady, everything that a boy could want to be, I was, but it wasn't until those blades met that I was truly a knight. That's all a knight is,' the Kingslayer told him flatly, 'a sword sheathed in chivalry, any man can be one.'

'The man that killed him was a better knight than I, but the Smiling Knight had the right of it, we're cruelty and chivalry all folded together like valyrian steel. A knight's blade cuts deep and sweet.'

'I am not a knight,' Jon repeated, 'nor do I understand why you're really telling me this.'

'You could be,' the Kingslayer told him. 'I heard you in Winterfell. Men in a white cloaks need not worry about being or having bastards. You only need to be a good knight to dress in white, and you remind me of a man who was a better knight than me.'

 _Men in white cloaks._

It was a foolish, vain dream, one that Jon knew he should not indulge the moment he heard it, but the image stuck in his head. He could see himself armoured in milk white plate, smoke-grey blade in hand as he stood proudly beside the king with nothing to his name but the respect he had earned.

 _Lady Stark would spit blood at the idea._

'I had heard that Lannister's do not like Starks,' Jon said slowly, 'but both you and your brother have offered me advice.'

'Tyrion has a soft spot for those the world has cursed from birth like he.' Jaime Lannister's smile softened a little at the mention of his sibling. 'Besides,' the smile sharpened again, 'you are not a Stark, are you?'

'No.' Jon saw no lie on the man's face, and he suspected he would know if Jaime did lie, for the man did not seem suited to it despite his reputation, but nor, he decided, had he told him the whole truth.

'But you could have one of these,' he tapped the gold fastening of his white cloak, 'worse men than you have worn them.'

'What king would let a bastard join the Kingsguard?'

'Robert Baratheon.' The Kingslayer did not seem overly fond of his king. 'If he doesn't then I suppose you could always skin your wolf and pretend.'

'I pity the man that tries to skin Ghost.'

Jaime Lannister snorted and carelessly ruffled the direwolf's ears.

'Brave,' Jon smiled wryly, 'you might lose a hand if you aren't careful.'

'My sister would take more than a hand in revenge,' the Kingslayer shrugged.

'You'd still be without yours though. Beheading people does not bring back what's been lost.'

'You wouldn't get on with my father,' the Kingslayer said. 'He's fond of putting people's heads on display. Without the bodies attached mind.'

Jon said nothing of Tywin Lannister. He was not well liked in the North. At best it was said that the redeeming parts of him had been buried with his wife, at worst they cursed a man whose cold ambition and cruelty were as endless as the mines of the West.

The two of them stood in silence, leaning on the red stone crenellations.

'Let's see your blade?' Jaime Lannister demanded after a moment.

Jon passed him the plain steel sword with little ceremony.

'Better than I expected,' the Kingslayer admitted, shifting his grip expertly along the hilt to test its balance, 'but if you're as good as your uncle then you deserve a much better blade.'

Jon frowned. He had heard that Brandon Stark had been a swordsman of some skill, but his father and likely uncle Benjen were also talented.

He voiced as much. Curious.

Jaime Lannister's smile would have cut through steel, but he only shrugged. 'Your father was skilled enough to kill some of my former brothers, but it was no fair fight, still, if you're interested in finding out perhaps there's someone you should meet. I don't know him myself, I glimpsed him arriving with the others who have come for the Hand's Tourney, but he's a squire here in King's Landing for some young, red-haired knight.'

'The Hand's Tourney.' It was the first Jon had heard of it, and he was sure that his father would not be flattered by the unnecessary extravagance.

'If you weren't a Snow I'd suggest entering. I won my first melee at about your age.'

 _But I am._

'How do you become a knight?' He tried to convince himself he was asking out of curiosity, but his head was full of swirling white cloaks and gilded swords.

'You become a squire,' the Kingslayer shrugged, 'my father arranged it for me.' He smiled slyly. 'Perhaps you should ask that squire when you find him.'

'How should I find a single squire in this city?' Jon doubted he had the means or time to find him, or that he would be spoken to if he did.

'Wait for the knights to gather for the tourney,' Jaime Lannister smirked, 'then look for a white star and sword on a purple field.'

AN: Please read and review, thanks to everyone who does!

P.S. My original fic that was on Inkitt (and still is) is now on Fictionpress because my attempt to assuage my curiosity and see if the site is just a hoax for spam or not isn't yielding any results, but the story I was writing off the top of my head has now actually developed into something worth finishing. So, if anyone wants to read it you can find it far more easily on fictionpress than on Inkitt!


	8. Jon VI

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

Next chapter posted! Enjoy...

 **Jon VI**

'No.'

'It'll be fun,' Jory insisted, clapping him on the back hard enough to leave a new set of ringmail indentations between his shoulders.

'No.'

'Don't make me order you,' his captain grinned.

'Fine,' Jon sighed, 'but I'm holding you personally responsible for my misery.'

'Here,' Jory passed him his wineskin, 'you'll need this. It's going to be hot, and well,' he shrugged ruefully, 'you know.'

Jon did know. He knew all too well.

'Hot as all seven silly southern hells,' Jon grumbled. 'You're supposed to be doing this. If I wasn't here you'd definitely be doing this.'

'That's not true,' Jory said with a sly smile. 'There's always another guard to sacrifice.'

'You have to be the worst captain of the guard Winterfell has ever had.'

'Nah,' Jory chuckled, 'I'm pretty sure some of them got executed for treason, so I'm not the worst.'

'Execution might be preferable to this.'

'It's a tourney, one of the largest ever and for your father too, young men are supposed to like tourneys, Jon.'

'I won't be watching the tourney will I?'

'Well,' Jory's grin was unseemly wide, 'you might catch a glimpse of it in between keeping your sisters from each other's throats.'

'I am beginning to think the Wall was the better choice,' Jon groaned.

Jory chuckled as he drifted off towards the barracks and the game of dice he had been winning leaving Jon with both hands wrapped firmly around the short straw.

He took his time on his way to his father's solar, lingering in the inevitably vain hope that maybe Jory would change his mind, or his father would find another poor soul to suffer in his place.

'Jon,' his father smiled when he stepped into the room, 'Jory said you wanted to go to the tourney so I arranged for you to escort your sisters, and the septa.'

 _I'm going to kill him in his sleep._

'Jon,' Arya beamed, bounding out from behind their father's, 'we get to see the tourney.' He knew well enough that Arya's smile had nothing to do with the tourney, that she had no interest in, and everything to do with being able to spend time with someone other than her sister or Septa Mordane who lurked quietly in his father's shadow.

Sansa said nothing, and while she was smiling nicely Jon recognised the expression Lady Stark had taught her to wear when she was supposed to be appear courteous and kind.

The idea of being seen anywhere near her father's bastard when the crown prince and lords and ladies could see likely did not appeal to her in the slightest.

'You should go,' their father remarked, 'or you'll be late. There is a spot reserved for you among the other high ladies since it seems the two of you must attend.'

Arya's brief scowl and her sister's triumphant smile told Jon far more of story than his father's statement.

'Are you not coming?' Sansa asked sweetly.

'I am,' Jon's father nodded, 'but I have to speak to the king first. One last attempt to make the man see sense. Look after your sisters please Jon.'

He strode swiftly from the solar and the moment the door thudded shut the septa slid to the centre of the room.

'There is a litter,' Septa Mordane announced, 'but there is only room for four.'

Jon stared pointedly at the other three occupants of the room.

'Jeyne,' Sansa said innocently.

'A girl should not be left to walk through the streets of King's Landing alone,' the septa agreed.

 _Are you volunteering to walk?_ Jon wanted to ask.

'I don't mind walking,' Jon said instead, shrugging. While the septa's obvious reluctance to have his little sister or Sansa near him was annoying, it was preferable to having to endure the woman's scorn firsthand.

He had not anticipated the size of the crowds, nor how awful the heat was, not even after several weeks in the city's southern sun.

The litter drifted casually through the throng, a thin screen of golden silk separating the girls and the septa from the reality around them. Behind that golden curtain it smelt of stolen lemon cakes and perfume, the envious gazes of the people were shrouded from sight, so only Jon was left to bear them, hand on the hilt at his hip.

'Jon,' his little sister's small hand slipped through the silks to tug at his shoulder, 'have you seen what I found?'

'No,' he admitted, struggling to walk so close to the litter, 'but we're almost there, so you can show me in a moment.'

The noise from the tourney ground was already clearly audible even before they reached the stands before the listings. The hubbub was so loud, and the crowd so deep on the far side that Jon wondered if half the realm had come to see the splendour the king had commissioned in his father's name.

 _Not that father appreciates it._

'Look Jon.' Arya thrust a golden dragon under his nose the moment she was free of the litter, too impatient to wait until they were seated.

'A dragon?' Jon had never needed to hold one, and neither had his little sister. 'Where did you get it?'

'I didn't steal it.' She scowled up at him. 'I found it by the dragon skulls.'

'Glossing over the fact that you've been in part of the Red Keep you weren't supposed to be,' Jon grinned at her false innocence, 'what are you going to spend it on?'

'Nothing,' Sansa interceded, exiting the litter to stare around herself in wonder. 'It's no longer a valid coin. The other side's all ruined.'

Arya turned it over sheepishly, and revealed the burnt, melted side where the king's face should sit.

'I'm still keeping it.'

'Aerys,' Septa Mordane decided absently, 'the other coins all had a different style of dragon until he changed it.' She closed Arya's hand over the coin. 'Our seats are at the middle of this row.'

Jon edged down the row, ignoring the puzzled glances he received from the lords and ladies of the court before they saw his sisters and the septa.

'Who wants to sit on the end?' Arya asked him hopefully.

 _Who doesn't have to sit next to Sansa._

'Do you still have that coin?' Jon asked.

'Of course.'

'I'll toss it to decide who has to endure the end,' Jon offered.

'You'll cheat,' Arya accused.

'Just sit down,' Sansa hissed from the other side of Arya.

'I'll toss the coin,' Septa Mordane mediated. 'I am a servant of the seven after all.' Arya very reluctantly passed the dragon to the septa. 'I'll give it back,' she promised wearily. 'Arya?'

'Jon can call it,' his little sister decided, brow wrinkled thoughtfully.

'Dragon,' he said as the coin flashed in the air above the septa's hand. It seemed very unwise to shout out the name of the mad king in the middle of what was effectively the court.

The coin slapped heavily into Septa Mordane's hand, burnt, twisted face staring up at him.

'Sorry Jon,' Arya crowed, snatching her coin back.

'Why?' He smiled triumphantly. 'We tossed to see who wouldn't have to sit on the end,' he struggled to keep a straight face at Arya's mounting horror, 'and I lost.' Jon smugly stationed himself on the seat not next to Sansa.

'You cheated,' she sulked, poking at the coin which had betrayed her, 'somehow you cheated.'

'The gods decided, Little Wolf,' Jon laughed.

'Hush, Arya,' Sansa whispered, 'look, it's starting.'

'Don't _hush_ me,' Arya retorted fiercely.

'There's Jory,' Jeyne pointed out, 'he looks very drab next to all the knights.'

Jon spared his captain and the empty-headed steward's daughter a brief glance, enough to confirm that he lacked the elaborate, gilded armour of his rivals, and to see that Jeyne's eyes had already flitted on to the next in the procession of knights.

They watched the succession in relative silence, with only Sansa and Jeyne's commentary to ignore beside them.

All the Kingsguard were there, cloaked and armoured in milk white, save for the Kingslaryer whose armour was gilt gold, splendid and respected even among the host of other knights and lords beside them on the field. There were a handful of others that he recognised, and the septa helpfully pointed out some of the more noteworthy knights, though even she was unable to distract the two from some of the more handsome knights.

The Tyrell knight, Ser Loras, whom Jon had heard Fat Tom call the Knight of Flowers, drew Jeyne's eye for a few minutes, but only until the tourney began with a crash of steel and a shower of splinters.

Nowhere did he catch sight of a white sword and stars, nor a purple field, and by the time the melee ended with a victorious Thoros of Myr brandishing his still burning sword he had begun to believe that Jaime Lannister might have been playing games with him.

'This is boring and stupid,' Arya muttered as Jory and Lothor Brune clashed for a third time without success.

'Tell that to your sister,' Jon whispered back. ' _This is better than songs,'_ he mimicked quietly.

Arya laughed.

'I don't understand it,' she said after a pause in which Jory was declared the loser of the very even bout between himself and the other inglorious free rider. 'You can't joust in a battle, can you?'

'One moment,' Jon smiled, 'I'm enjoying the sight.'

'You're watching Jory.' Arya didn't look up from where she was toying with the coin she had found.

'He saddled me with you and your sister because he thinks it's funny,' Jon said, eyeing his retreating back with uncharacteristic glee.

'And because none of the other guards can find me,' Arya grinned.

'I have Ghost to help,' Jon reminded her.

'He's so handsome,' Jeyne giggled, blushing wildly. 'The fat red priest can't hope to defeat a knight like him.'

Jon resisted the urge to remind her that the fat red priest had just won the melee with a flaming sword, and that the septa had told them then that he had scaled the walls of Pyke in the same fashion during the Greyjoy's rebellion.

'That's Lord Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven. He's betrothed,' Septa Mordane pointed out, 'to Alyrria Dayne I believe.'

Jon eyed the knight curiously, knowing better than to risk asking the septa about Alyrria Dayne, or anything that might be connected to the woman whose name was not spoken in Winterfell.

The Lord of Blackhaven was garbed in ebony gilded plate, bearing a shield split by a purple lightning bolt, and grinning roguishly from under a red-gold disarray of hair as he raised his lance to salute the king.

'I would marry him in an instant if he asked,' Jeyne sighed.

Only Jon caught the slightly pitying look that Sansa sent her friend.

Casting an eye along the lists to look for Dondarrion's opponent he caught sight of a young boy holding a black-painted lance. The boy, likely Dondarrion's squire, had unremarkable, pale blond hair, but his eyes were indigo, the same shade that Jory had described, and Jon felt the bottom drop out of his stomach at the sight of him.

'I'll be back in a moment,' he said loudly enough for the septa to hear. 'I've had a little too much wine.'

He hadn't touched Jory's wineskin, and Arya, who was sitting close enough to touch it, knew that. Her eyes followed him all long the row until he disappeared from sight, walking slowly so he arrived after the bout was ended.

'You're Lord Dondarrion's squire?' He asked, when the lord himself had trotted past looking very disappointed. Evidently Thoros of Myr had been the victor of their bout.

'Edric Dayne,' the boy replied tentatively, 'I am Lord Dondarrion's squire, and Lord of Starfall, or at least I will be when I'm older.'

 _This is the squire the Kingslayer meant._

'My lord,' Jon inclined his head, silently thanking the old gods for his luck.

'Just Ned,' the boy grimaced, 'please. Why did you ask?'

'I wanted to learn about becoming a squire,' Jon answered. 'I think it was suggested I talk to you, and you seemed approachable enough.'

It was almost the truth.

'Oh,' Edric Dayne looked almost pleased, 'you have to be a page first, then you can be a squire and perhaps a knight. Why did you want to know?'

'I'd like to be a knight,' Jon admitted, 'but I was born on the wrong side of the blanket.'

 _Never forget what you are, the world will not._

Tyrion Lannister's words echoed in the back of his head.

'You're a little old to be a page,' the boy said awkwardly, 'but if you can find the right knight he might make you a squire straight away if you're skilled enough.'

'The right knight?'

'One who needs a squire too much to wait for a noble born boy,' Edric said apologetically. 'Can you ride, tilt or fight with a sword.'

'Of my brothers I am the best save Robb,' Jon answered honestly.

Eric Dayne's eyes flicked to the direwolf on his chest, then he burst into a bright smile, shyness forgotten.

'Jon Snow,' he said. 'We're brother's, you know.'

'We are?' Jon couldn't think of anyway the two of them could be brothers. His father only had one bastard, and the woman his father refused to speak about had died two years before Edric Dayne could have been born.

'Milk brothers,' Ned nodded, 'Wylla was my wet nurse as well.'

'Oh.' Jon felt rather foolish now for overlooking something so simple in favour of his dreams.

'Can't your father find a knight?'

'Northmen don't become knights.'

Jon hadn't really asked him. He hadn't dared.

'So why do you want to?' Ned seemed vaguely puzzled for a moment.

'I want to be one,' he admitted. 'People respect knights.'

 _Even empty headed little girls do._

'I won a prize for riding at rings when I was a page,' Ned said, 'and I'm not too bad with a sword either, though I'm not my uncle. I can't really help you find a knight, but I can tell you if you're good enough to be a squire. Lord Beric tells me I'm a good squire,' he finished embarrassedly.

'Ned,' the red-haired lord strolled from the tent, 'who's this?'

'My brother,' Ned said immediately. 'Well, sort of. He's my milk brother, Jon Snow.'

'Eddard Stark's son.' Beric Dondarrion looked surprised to see him, but not at all upset. 'I wasn't aware you knew him?'

'We just met, my lord.'

'Jon wants to become a knight.' He winced at Edrics earnest statement of his intent. 'I offered to tell him if I thought he was skilled enough to be a squire without becoming a page.'

'I'll see how you do as well then Ned.' Dondarrion smiled easily. 'I've only seen you joust at the rings in the last month or so.'

The knight drew his longsword and passed it casually to Ned who took it like it were as aflame as the red priest's weapon, but slid into a balanced stance.

Jon drew his own much less impressive weapon.

 _Live steel._

He swallowed.

'Is this really the best place for this?' Ned asked.

'There's plenty of space,' Lord Dondarrion replied with easy recklessness, 'and nobody will get in the way unless they're very stupid.'

Ned swung first with confidence that belied his youth and shy attitude. Jon parried the blade away, aware that his two years gave him both height and strength over the younger boy, and determined to make the most of it.

The boy was fast, much faster than Jon had expected, and stronger than his lean build would imply, but Jon was faster.

Their blades met again, the steel ringing sweetly in Jon's fingers, then his age and strength won out and Edric was forced back a step.

He attacked again, the simple sword hissing past Ned's guard to leave a bright scratch down the squire's steel encased breast.

Eric checked his next strike, then the following two, but was forced back first one step then another as Jon began to push himself to be faster, to strike harder.

Eric Dayne retreated swiftly under the onslaught, flinching with every parry until his back hit the wall of the tent at the end of the listings.

'Enough,' Lord Beric hissed urgently, staring past Jon's shoulder.

The simple steel blade tore a line through the canvas before Jon hurriedly sheathed it.

'Damn fool of a boy,' Robert Baratheon grumbled, tossing his wine cup to the miserable looking Lannister trailing in his wake. 'Honourable, noble, but damned stupid. Even you wouldn't throw so many dragons away over honour, Ned.'

Jon edged as far behind Edric Dayne as the younger boy's smaller stature would allow. He could only imagine how disappointed his father would be if he found him here instead of looking after his sister and Sansa.

'Honour can't be bought with gold, your grace,' his father said evenly.

The king glanced around him, looking for others who would support his view, and inevitably caught sight of Jon and his company.

 _Damn._

Robert Baratheon opened his mouth to speak, then a very small smile crossed his lips and he wrapped an arm about Jon's father, leading him away back towards the Red Keep.

Jon blinked, then swiftly side-stepped to avoid the edge of Lord Beric's blade when Ned passed it back to him.

'You're very good,' Edric said quietly.

'Good enough?'

Lord Beric laughed. 'Boy you're half a decade younger than me and already likely better than I am while using a blade I wouldn't even cut grass with. Ned's the finest squire I've seen with both lance and sword and you beat him handily.'

'I am older, my lord.'

'Faster too and more skilled.' Eric's head dropped. 'Don't be a fool, Ned,' Lord Beric admonished with a grin, 'there's still nobody I would rather have as my squire.'

'I need to be getting back to my sister and Sansa,' he said apologetically. 'Thank you, my lord, Ned.' he smiled at his milk brother.

'We're staying at the Inn on Eel Alley at the top of Visenya's Hill,' Ned said shyly. 'If you have the time it might be nice to talk. I can tell you all about Starfall?' He offered.

'I'd like that,' Jon said, grinning.

 _I suppose I owe Jaime Lannister for this._

His father would never let such a debt go unpaid; it wasn't right.

Ned waved, then hurried after Lord Beric who had begun to remove pieces of his armour as he strode back towards the tent Jon had sliced a piece out of.

Jon swiftly made his way back towards the stands, but he managed only half the journey before he ran into Arya.

'What were you doing?' She demanded.

'I made a friend,' he said. 'What are you doing over here?'

'Who?' Arya asked with a scowl. 'The tourney is boring, and Sansa is being stupid like always.'

'He's called Ned,' Jon answered, uncomfortable with having to all but lie to her.

'Just Ned? Or like Father?'

'Edric,' Jon relented, 'Edric Dayne.'

Arya eyed him curiously while Jon quietly prayed to the gods that she didn't realise the connection.

'Dayne like Ser Arthur Dayne?' Some of the septa's lessons had sunk in, though Jon rather suspected she only remembered the knights and not the ladies.

'Yes,' Jon nodded, relieved. 'Best not to tell father or I'll get in trouble for leaving you and Sansa.'

'I can think of a few other reasons not to tell him,' she grinned cheekily, 'but you know I won't.'

'Thanks, Little Wolf.' Jon squeezed her hand appreciatively.

'Will you see him again?'

'I would like to,' Jon said softly, 'he offered to tell me about Starfall, and maybe he'll help me find a knight to squire for, any knight willing to teach me and then knight me will do. I doubt I'll have much choice.'

'Good,' Arya's grin widened, 'if you're off with him then there's nobody who can catch me.'

'You're awful.' Jon mussed her hair.

'Wait,' her grin faded, 'you want to be a knight.'

'Yes,' he nodded. 'I know what I want to be. One day it will be me out there beside the king, and I'll be Ser Jon Snow, not Eddard Stark's bastard.'

'Kingsguard,' Arya pouted. She laughed suddenly. 'That means you'll have to put up with Sansa and Joffrey all the time. Are you sure it's worth it?'

' _King's_ guard, little sister, not sulky prince protection.'

He wanted it too much to give up over one spoilt golden-haired child.

 _I'll have a cloak as white as snow._

He chuckled to himself, and Arya scowled, thinking he was laughing at her.

'Let's go back to your sister, Jeyne and the septa,' he said.

'I don't want you to be a knight,' she decided. 'There aren't any knights in the North so you'll end up being all far away.'

'You'll have to come and live in King's Landing with Sansa,' Jon laughed, 'or marry a nice southern lord like Lord Beric.'

'He's marrying that Dayne lady,' Arya said, 'I'm never marrying some silly prince like Sansa is.'

Jon cast an eye around the stands, but caught sight of neither Sansa, Jeyne and the septa nor the litter they came on.

'I have good news and bad news, Little Wolf,' he sighed.

'Bad news first.'

'We're going to have to walk back to the Red Keep, which means I will have to wait to laugh at Jory.'

'Good news?'

'You don't have to ride in the litter with Sansa and Jeyne.'

Arya's face lit up like a torch. 'Can we go exploring? We can see the Dragonpit.'

'No,' Jon shook his head. 'Not a chance.'

'Please,' she pleaded, 'nobody will know, you can tell father I ran off and you had to find me?'

'Fine,' Jon relented, 'but we're not going inside.'

'Ok,' Arya nodded, grabbing his hand and all but dragging him in the direction of the ruined dome.

AN: Please read and review, thanks to everyone who does! And my original story is still on FictionPress for those who are interested.


	9. Tyrion III

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

It's been a long time, hasn't it? And after all that waiting there's only this tiny piece of a chapter, not what anyone was hoping for, I'm sure, but I figured it was best to be a bit patient rather than launching back into things, and wait until I had fully slipped back into the skin of these characters after being so many different ones for so long in my own things.

Still, I know what you're all thinking, even Winds of Winter was written faster than this, what have you been doing all this time? Are you going to pick this fic back up seriously again?

The answer to the first one of those questions is writing - just not writing this - but if it makes anyone feel better (which I doubt) I have written two and a half manuscripts of my own in this time. The answer to the second is yes, I'm waiting on getting my original stuff edited, so while that happens I'm going to pick this back up again - it also coincides with the impending new season of GoT and my renewed interest in the ASoIaF world.

I do apologise for the brevity, but like I said, it's probably best I do a handful of less important bits to get back into the feel of it before I do anything that should be good and ruin it by being impatient!

 **Tyrion III**

Winterfell was warm. _Warm_.

 _Gods I have missed the warm_ , Tyrion thought, lingering by the brazier at the gate for a moment just to enjoy the touch of heat upon his face and side. The castle was built over hot springs, if he remembered his reading correctly, and perhaps it was that that kept the stones warm, for not more than a few miles north it was bitterly cold, and no camp fire, torch or cloak could block the wind.

The grey-cloaked men at the gate were twice the number he remembered, and he could feel their eyes upon him. The brothers in black moved easily, freely, not ignored, but trusted. He was watched, watched all the way into the hall, where the walls were lined with yet more of Stark's men.

'You are not welcome, Lannister.' The eldest Stark boy sat on the bleak stone chair his forefathers had called a throne when they styled themselves the Kings of Winter. He looked more Tully than Stark, more trout than wolf, but there was more than enough winter in his tone to make Tyrion pause and his ancestors proud.

'Have I done something to offend, my boy?' Tyrion asked warily.

'My brother is dead,' Robb Stark replied, and when he shifted there was a flash of bare steel in his lap. 'And I am lord when my father and mother are away, not your boy.'

 _He greets me with a drawn blade._ Suddenly he wished he had gone south with the others instead of venturing to see the Wall.

'I'm sorry to hear that,' Tyrion told him softly. 'He did not deserve it. I thought, though, that he was recovering.'

'He was, then a man stuck a knife in him while he slept.' Tyrion blinked. 'My mother believes quite strongly that the Lannisters are to blame.'

 _I believe he_ r, hovered unsaid between them.

'Surely the man told you who hired him?' Tyrion asked.

'Grey Wind ripped out his throat,' the boy replied bleakly, and there was a soft growl behind Tyrion that needed no further introduction.

 _Starks and their bloody wolves,_ he swore, turning just enough to keep one eye on the beast that was now no shorter than he was. _Seven hells_ , he swore again. _It's grown a foot in a month alone._

'We have only the bag of silver stags he was paid, and this.' The dagger spun as the young Stark pushed it across the table towards him, his blue eyes cool, and calculating.

Tyrion waited for it to stop moving, then picked it up; it was lighter than he expected.

'Dragonbone,' he said aloud, weighing it one hand, though he knew it from sight alone. 'And Valyrian steel. There aren't many knives like this lying around; a poor choice of weapon.'

Robb Stark's eyes froze, and behind him the dire wolf snarled quietly.

'What I mean,' Tyrion said hurriedly, 'is that only a very stupid person would give such a weapon to their hired hand. Nobody who kills for a bag of silver could afford a weapon like this; it should be traceable back to its source.'

'Maester Luwin tells me the king has a collection of such blades, swords, knives, spears and more that were all hoarded by the Targaryen's,' the Stark boy said. His implication was obvious.

 _Within easy Lannister reach._ Tyrion had to concede it was true, any member of his family could have managed it, but he knew better than to believe they would try. There were only three who would dare: his father, his brother, and his sister, and it was not like any of them to be so crude.

'Well,' Tyrion said, flinching at the growl that sounded again, and clenching his jaw at the titter of laughter from the northmen. 'I can assure it is unlikely my family is responsible. My father is no fool, he only hates children who are dwarves, I promise-'

'This not the time for your japes, Lannister,' the boy said coldly.

Tyrion bit his tongue to keep his tone even. 'It's not my brother either, Jaime kills his enemies himself, my sweet sister has a long list of her husband's bastards to get through before your brothers make it there, and it most certainly was not I.'

'We have your word, do we?' Robb Stark said grimly.

'On my honour,' Tyrion replied. 'Speaking of which, I promised Lord Commander Mormont I encourage the realm to reinforce the Night's Watch. He fears a storm is coming as the winter grows nearer.'

 _He fears the snarks are coming to kill us all_ , Tyrion thought. But it cannot hurt to help him.

'Maester Luwin will send ravens,' the Stark boy promised.

'Did Bran ever say how he fell in the first place?' Tyrion asked gently.

'He never woke,' the young Stark said thickly, and Tyrion grimaced. He felt for the boy, still caring for the brother who would have been broken.

'When I reach King's Landing I will look into the knife,' he promised. 'Consider it a debt.'

The young lord of Winterfell gave him a look that told him he did not expect Tyrion to keep his word, but nodded. 'The hospitality of Winterfell is yours,' he said politely.

'I know where I am welcome,' Tyrion told him curtly. 'I'll stay in the inn in town.'

He waddled from the hall with all the dignity he could muster, skirting the direwolf uneasily when it didn't budge an inch and continued to watch him with hot yellow eyes.

'You're leaving, milord,' Yoren said when Tyrion, pulled himself into the saddle in the stables. His yellow teeth looked even worse in the light of the torches.

'I'm not welcome here, the Starks are grieving, my presence would only cause trouble.' He wrapped his cloak back around him as tightly as he could, then spurred his mare back out into the heavy snow.

 _A light autumn snow_ , Yoren had called it. Tyrion snorted, and tried to pull the cloak tighter still. _In a few days I will be south of the Neck, and it will be warm again_ , he promised himself.

The road, at least, was still clear, the snow that had covered it piled in great mounds along the roadside, so high the worn stone signs were almost buried, but Tyrion could see the lights of the town from here already, so he made for those, breathing on his fingers every few seconds.

Quiet movement in the shadows of the road, made his twist fearfully, and his heart hammered against his ribs at every creak and groan of the trees in the wind.

 _Damn Mormont_ , Tyrion thought bitterly. _Damn the Stark boy and his wolf, and damn whomever needlessly killed the other Stark boy._

Mormont and the old Targaryen maester at the wall had filled his head full of fears of those all old tales. Every shadow was an Other, the things of legend that lurked beyond the wall, every slinking rabbit a direwolf, with eyes of flame, and soft hunger in their snarls, and the pattering of birds in the snow was the stalking of ice spiders, or any one of the many monsters the books had conjured up.

'I am a friend to snarks,' he told the Wolfswood to still his fear as the lights of the town drew almost close enough to touch.

 _If the grumpkins mean to take me they will attack now_ , he thought wryly.

He rode untroubled to the inn, passing his horse to the stable boy who'd barricaded himself in the small room by the torch with a skin of wine, and plate of hard cheese and sausage.

Tyrion's stomach growled louder than any of Stark's wolves when he caught the smell of the food, and he hurried into the inn.

A couple of dragons were enough for a room, a table by the fire, a plate of food, and a bottle of wine he doubted was actually from the Arbor, but seemed at least red.

It was two glasses of wine, half a plate and enough fire to get the feeling back into his fingers and toes that the cold fear struck him again and his mouth dried so swift he had to gulp a third glass just to swallow.

 _Seven hells_ , he swore again. _The Starks are friends to not just the king, but most the realm, if Lord Stark wants justice against Casterly Rock it will take a miracle and every speck of gold my father can shit to save us._

And Tyrion laughed, ignoring the odd looks he drew again from men only just accustomed to having a dwarf among them. Then he topped up his glass with the rest of the bottle and laughed until he nearly cried, because it was Eddard Stark, and because the only Lannister the Lord of Winterfell would even half listen to would be him, and he wasn't sure what would pain his father more: the cost of Stark's justice, or having to let Tyrion save him.

 _At least there is a chance he will listen_. The Stark boy had not, not really, but his father was older, smarter, if still horribly honest, and there was a chance he might realise Tyrion's family probably weren't culpable.

 _If only the boy had lived_ , he thought, his good humour fading. _But what can one weak boy do against an armed man._

His spoilt nephew's pouty face swam into his head, a mess of golden curls and contemptuous sneers. Weak things die, he thought disdainfully. Joffrey was fool enough to try something, fool enough to think it mercy too.

 _What a bloody mess_ , Tyrion decided. He had half a mind to take a ship from Whiteharbour to Pentos, and avoid the whole thing. He was Lannister though; Lannister's didn't run away, and certainly not ones that wanted to inherit Casterly Rock.

AN: You all know I love reviews, and like everyone else, feedback encourages me to write!


	10. Jon VII

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

And back to usual length chapters. They did go the dragonpit, and I definitely remember typing the word dragon a few times in this chapter too!

A couple of like-minded reviewers out there I see (not that I'll say which, of course) but you'll know who you are in a few chapters!

Enjoy... (I hope)

 **Jon**

'My lord hand, my lord hand,' another lord called, and his father gave an almost inaudible groan as he turned. They'd only managed a handful of steps since the last such incident.

Jon took a deep breath, missing the company of Ghost more than ever this week, and leant against the wall just out of earshot again.

 _How I regret taking Arya to the Dragonpit now_ , he thought dryly.

The dragonpit had been a looming, dirty ruin, more ash pit than monument, but Jon suspected that was how the king liked it. When the men in the street around had sneered and said the king preferred to waste his gold on wine rather than rebuilding, Jon had said nothing, but he disagreed.

The ruin that still loomed over the skyline of the capital was a bleak reminder of what came after blood and fire, and the king Jon has glimpsed in the crypts of Winterfell seemed every bit as much ash and ruin as the dragonpit was.

Arya, of course, had not been troubled by such ideas in the slightest. The dark history, the barriers, the dirt nor even Jon's best attempts to stop her had managed to keep her from wriggling through a gap in the boards and exploring the forbidden inside as well as the outside while Jon dragged himself in through a hole high up on the wall to catch before someone else did.

His little sister had certainly liked the old ruin for she had scrambled all through it searching for dragon eggs that Jon sincerely hoped she didn't find. Arya and Nymeria were bad enough, Arya and a dragon would be a catastrophe that didn't bear thinking about.

She'd been covered in dirt when he had finally found her, streaked in ash and mud and dust from her tangled hair to grubby feet, and grinning like someone had stolen Santa's lemon cakes again. Jon had only the knowledge that there were at least no heart trees she could climb here in the south as comfort. The old gods were distant here, and though Jon had grown used to their absence he still missed the quiet of the weirwood's grove. The Red Keep did have one, tucked away somewhere quiet, but he was too busy to find time to visit.

Their father on the other hand had been very displeased when they returned. Mostly with Jon, because he somehow seemed to know that Arya was lying when she said she'd run off, and that Jon had actually let her go.

While his little sister had been reluctantly dragged through several baths by the septa he had shifted awkwardly in his father's solar, trying to explain it was better to take Arya, than wait for her to escape and go on her own.

His father, remarkably, had accepted that explanation without batting an eyelash, and simply extracted a promise to inform him the next time he felt it prudent to chaperone Arya somewhere outside the Red Keep. Jon had given his word readily, then suggested Jory come too, just in case.

His father's very slight smile as he agreed spoke volumes as to how much he really knew about his household, as did his small frown a moment later when he condemned Jon to following him around the Red Keep and the city for the rest of the week. Jon had trailed him all over the Red Keep, from the Grand Maester's chambers to the Master of Coin's, and even stood outside the door of his solar for his meetings with a man who he was sure had been the Spider, whom the other guards mentioned of as a master of spies. That meeting had been far preferable to his visit to the Grand Maester, from whose chambers he'd had to carry a weighty tome on the lineages of lords all the way back to the Tower of the Hand. The book sat on his father's desk still, and Jon had often seen him poring over House Baratheon in the evenings.

'Thank you, my lord,' the man was saying, bobbing his head up and down so rapidly Jon wondered if it were about to come off.

'I need to see the king,' his father said, excusing himself, and motioned that Jon should continue to drift along behind him this time.

The last few times his father had solemnly apologised and sent him back to Jory, his little sister, and Sansa rather than have him around the small council.

 _Apparently this time is different_. Jon wasn't sure he liked that, because he knew his father would not have changed his mine alone, and that whoever had managed to convince him to risk his wife's wrath even further must have had considerable sway over him.

'Robert - the king - insisted that I not send you back to the keep on his account,' his father explained bluntly.

 _That explains that_ , Jon realised, flexing his fingers uncomfortably.

He didn't really like the interest the king was taking in his family. First Sansa - though he did feel that she and Joffrey deserved it each other at times - then Arya and he.

 _At least Arya reminds him of our aunt_ , he thought grimly. The king had no reason to hold such an interest in Jon, for even if he did resemble his father the king had his father here himself.

'You'll wait outside,' his father decided. 'I don't yet know if the Queen is going to be there.'

'Yes, father,' Jon agreed absently, quietly praying to the Old Gods that the meeting be brief. He was beginning to fear they had no influence down south though, for they had yet to grant this prayer after several days of trying.

His father, Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, pushed open the doors to the council room with the same air often adopted by the unfortunate man who had to tell Arya the septa had deemed it needlework time. Jon deftly sidestepped to the left as the doors moved, remaining out of sight of those within the room. When they shut he leant his shoulder against the column of the door frame and sighed softly.

Someone chuckled loudly, and he instantly stiffened and swivelled to face them.

'Your grace,' he said politely, bowing to the blond woman whose emerald eyes roved over him so sharply. Ser Jaime, who accompanied her with Ser Barristan Selmy, was still smiling widely. The other knight of the Kingsguard was also looking at him, and for the fleeting moment before Jon heard the man's breath stop, he had the feeling he was being very intently studied.

 _Jaime Lannister likes causing trouble for me_ , Jon thought sourly.

Now that he was so close to her he could see Catelyn Stark in her stiff, formal manner. He could also see just how beautiful Queen Cersei was, and that she was quickly searching for a response now he had actually addressed her.

 _You should have stayed quiet_ , he told himself furiously. His father was going to be angry again.

'Jon Snow,' she said softly. 'I see the king has managed to drag out from where Lord Stark has been hiding you.'

'Yes, your grace,' Jon said, and though he'd tried not to sound it there was definitely some accord with the Lannister Queen's statement.

Jaime laughed again, tilting his head back, and Cersei smiled, a single flash of warmth and humour that made Jon's stomach drop. Cersei Lannister was beautiful all the time, but as cold and distant as winter stars. When she smiled she was the summer sun's heat on Jon's cheeks.

He was still standing there when the doors closed and the queen was gone.

'My sister is very beautiful then, Jon?' Jaime Lannister said sharply.

Jon swallowed. 'She is, ser,' he admitted bravely, then glared at the knight when he realised he was smiling.

'The only man who seems not to have noticed is the king,' Jaime said. Ser Barristan, who stood silently on the other side of Jaime coughed pointedly, and the Lannister knight rolled his eyes and feel quiet.

The silence lingered a few moments, but only until the King's voice boomed from the room within. 'If it's so important do it yourself, Ned!' he yelled thickly. 'You're the hand, rule the realm!'

'Counting coppers,' Jaime Lannister deduced darkly. 'The king loathes it so very much.' Barristan Selmy shifted slightly. 'Aerys left a treasury full to the brim, but Robert owes my father millions of dragons alone.'

'How so, ser?' Jon asked curiously when Ser Barristan still said nothing.

'Tourneys, feasts, extravagances, and no interest in the keeping of accounts,' Ser Jaime said quietly, as the yelling intensified within. 'Now, Jon, how did you find the tourney?'

'It was good, Ser Jaime,' Jon replied cautiously.

'More than good,' Ser Jaime said wryly. 'Lord Beric seems convinced you are the finest swordsman of your age he has ever seen.' Jon stiffened at the praise, remembering the genuine desire he'd glimpsed in the Kingslayer's eyes before, and hoping it had faded. 'Did you get on well with his young squire?'

'You overstep yourself, Ser Jaime,' Barristan Selmy rumbled disapprovingly. 'Leave the lad be.'

'Come now, ser,' Jaime replied, smiling brightly, so bright his sharp spread of teeth seemed whiter even than the milk coloured steel of his armour, and the wool of his cloak. 'I'm sure Jon is grateful.'

'I am, ser' Jon admitted warily.

'You won't be, lad,' Ser Barristan said grimly. 'Ser Jaime is not helping you.'

 _Is he not?_ Jon wondered. The Lannisters and Starks were not fond of each other, but he was not Stark, and Jaime wasn't really a Lannister anymore, not since he'd put on that white cloak.

'Jon wants to stand where we are, Ser Barristan,' Jaime explained, without caring to ask if Jon actually did. It didn't seem Jaime Lannister cared about much if he was honest.

Barristan Selmy was quiet for a short while, and when he spoke his tone had changed completely. 'Perhaps you are helping him after all,' he conceded. 'A white cloak may be the perfect place for you, Jon -' he paused, then closed his jaw loudly enough for Jon to hear before he said the word snow.

 _Does he not like bastards?_ Jon wondered. The knight hadn't seemed to care before.

There was another bout of shouting from within the chamber, but it was muffled, and Jon couldn't make out anything of what had been said.

The door swept open, and his father strode out. He looked weary, worn, even, so far from the man Jon knew in Winterfell. Jon shot a brief glance through the door. So did both Jaime Lannister and Barristan Selmy.

He saw only the king, and once again he was not the drunken, whoring, hunting man who lived on past glories, but the man of bitter shadows and ashes, his eyes dark and angry and dangerous.

'Come, Jon,' his father said.

Jaime Lannister waved goodbye at him as he trailed away, and Jon scowled at the man's smile all the way back to the Tower of the Hand.

'We are heading into the city,' his father said grimly. 'Jory and you will accompany me, nobody else.'

'Why?' Jon asked, confused. 'What's in the city?'

'The street of armourers,' his father explained, in a voice that implied Jon would learn nothing more than that. He stifled a bitter reply to the familiar tone. 'We will be leaving King's Landing soon,' he added quietly.

Jon's head snapped up. _I haven't spoken to Ned, or anyone. I need to become a squire._

'I don't want to leave,' he said quietly. 'I hoped I might be able to become a squire here.'

His father looked at him stiffly. 'By speaking with Jaime Lannister, and Beric Dondarrion,' he said. 'I've heard. Sansa told me. You won't learn much about honour from the Kingslayer, nor anything but reckless chivalry from Beric Dondarrion.' Jon swallowed, and said nothing, but his father sighed, and relented. 'Trust me, Jon, the last place you should be is here. Starks are not meant for the south.'

'I'm not a Stark, father,' Jon reminded him softly.

'You are my son,' his father said. 'And we are going back to Winterfell, where we belong.'

 _Except I don't, do I, father?_

'My lord?' His father's steward, the father of Sansa's vapid friend Jeyne, knocked on the open door of his solar, his face grim. 'A letter.'

'It can wait. I was just about to leave-' Jon's father stopped when he saw his steward's face, and took the proffered letter without another word.

He read it once, then again as his jaw clenched, and Jon watched anxiously as his father crushed the letter into a ball in his fist.

'I'm sorry, my lord,' Vayon Poole said solemnly.

'Thank you, Poole,' his father said quietly. 'Send word to Winterfell, Moat Cailin must be reinforced, Whiteharbour too, and Theon Greyjoy must be kept close and safe. Prepare everyone to leave, they're riding home tomorrow.'

The steward left, and his father turned back to him. 'Bran is dead,' he said quietly. 'Some hired footpad killed him with a knife of valyrian steel for a bag of silver stags. My lady begs that I bring your sisters back to Winterfell.'

 _But not me,_ Jon noted hollowly, as the news sank slowly in. _Never me._

'Jon?' his father asked, shaking him by the shoulder. ' _Jon?'_ And he realised he had been standing there for a short while.

'Who?' Jon demanded, eyes burning. His fingers longed to creep for the hilt of his sword, to cut down whomever had dared to hurt his younger brother.

'There's no proof,' his father said grimly. 'I'm sorry, Jon,' he said, 'but you will have a chance to prove yourself soon enough anyway I fear.'

'I can't go back,' Jon said, brave and bitter. 'I do not belong there, nothing I find in Winterfell can ever end well, and I do not wish to spend the rest of my days enduring Lady Stark's wishes that my place and Bran's had been exchanged.'

'My lady would never do something so cruel,' his father remonstrated, and Jon gave up to stand in silence, his stomach churning at the idea of what he now had to go back to.

 _How can he not see?_ Jon thought angrily. _Or does he just not care?_

'Go find your sisters,' he ordered. 'Tell them we are leaving.' His face fell. 'Tell them about Bran. Jory will come find you before we head out into King's Landing.'

 _Gods help me,_ Jon thought, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

Never had the corridor to his little sister's and Sansa's chambers seemed so long or so dark.

'Jon!' Arya, discarded her embroidery into the corner and leapt up to hug him, and Jon instinctively wrapped his arms around her. Septa Mordane sucked her cheeks in, and rose up to snatch up Arya's work before it was ruined.

'Arya, sit down, your half-brother has not come to sneak you away from your lessons,' the septa said sternly.

'He's our _brother,'_ Arya insisted hotly, scrunching her face up rudely at Sansa when her sister sighed.

'I'm here to speak to my sister, and Sansa,' Jon said quietly and seriously. 'Please step outside, septa, and you as well, Jeyne.'

Arya leant her head back off his chest to look up at him as the rest of the room fell still. 'Is everything ok, Jon?'

'No,' he answered simply. 'Septa. Jeyne.'

The septa drew herself up, then exited calmly. Jeyne shot a timid look at Sansa, then scuttled out after her.

'You can't order the septa around,' Sansa told him.

Jon ignored her. 'Bran is dead,' he said bluntly, and both girls fell silent. 'He was murdered in his bed.'

'I don't believe you,' Arya said in small voice, burying her face back into his chest. Sansa was clutching tightly at the folds of her dress, trying her utmost not to cry, but her eyes were full of tears.

'We're going back to Winterfell tomorrow,' Jon told them both.

Sansa gasped. 'But we can't! I have to marry Joffrey!'

Arya said nothing, just scowled at the floor between Jon's feet.

'You'd miss your brother's funeral for that brat?' Jon asked her sharply. 'Some sister _you_ are.'

Sansa drew herself up, then burst into tears and ran out of the room.

'Good riddance!' Arya spat, pulling free of Jon's arms. 'Bran's - Bran's _dead,_ and all she can think about is _Joffrey._ I hope father never lets her leave Winterfell.'

'I don't think he will,' Jon said carefully.

'I hate them,' Arya said angrily, and suddenly the dagger the king had given her was in her hands. 'I'll kill them. Whomever killed Bran. I'll get them!'

'Hey,' Jon said softly, deftly removing the knife from her hands before she hurt herself. 'Father will find who is responsible, and he'll bring them to justice, just like the men who get taken to the fist.'

'But I want - I want,' Arya said weakly.

'I know,' Jon said, pulling her back into a tight hug. 'I know.'

'I won't ever see him again, will I?' his little sister realised.

'The gods will take care of him,' Jon told her gently. 'He's with our aunt, our uncle and our grandfather now.'

Arya made no noise, and it was only the wetness that touched his chest through his mail and shirt that let Jon know she was crying.

He held until she had cried herself out, then when she was exhausted from it, guided her back to her chambers. Sansa refused to look at him, but Jon was more than happy to ignore her while he helped his little sister to her bedchamber.

He found Jory waiting for him in the corridor outside.

'I'm sorry,' the captain of the guard said.

'Thank you,' Jon said. His sorrow was knife sharp in his breast, but it burnt helplessly, because his father hadn't told him who had done it.

 _He never tells anyone anything._

'Lord Stark is ready to head out,' Jory told him. 'Your horse is ready.'

Jon nodded solemnly, and adjusted the sheath of his sword as he hurried after Jory along the corridor.

'Don't worry,' Jory said firmly. 'Nobody will harm your father while I am there.'

Jon said nothing, because Bran had been in Winterfell, in the North, and surrounded by far more loyal swords than his father would be here in King's Landing. Something was beginning to smell foul in the city here, and it wasn't the waste strewn streets and alleys. The king took an unhealthy interest in he and his siblings, Jaime Lannister too, and the Queen whom he'd been set aside for in Winterfell had smiled at him so beautifully he had felt his face catch alight. Meanwhile his father hurried all about the Red Keep, speaking to men at all hours, and jumping at shadows.

 _Nothing is how it was supposed to be,_ Jon thought, as he swung himself into the saddle of his rather modest looking mare. The hilt of his sword poked him hard in the side, and he growled softly in annoyance. Jory chuckled, but not for so long as he would have any other day.

The city was hot. The maesters may be claiming summer was passing, but it didn't feel like in King's Landing. The sun filled the roads and markets with heat, and the other northman sweltered in it, even his father found it almost unbearable, and he was not so armoured as Jon, nor even Jory, who'd forgone mail for boiled leather after their first bout in the sun. The captain of the guard still looked like he'd taken a dip in the pools of Winterfell's Godswood he was so slick with sweat, and Jon's father was only a little less afflicted.

 _Are we there yet?_ he wanted to ask the back of his father, who led then stoically down street after street as the ringing of hammers grew louder.

'Here,' Jory called, tossing the wineskin he seemed to keep stashed somewhere on his person at all times towards Jon.

He fumbled it, and caught it only after it had bounced of his thigh. It was almost empty. 'Thanks,' Jon said dryly. He drank the last inch or so, grimacing at the sour taste, then spurred his horse forward to pass it back.

His father had dismounted, and passed his reigns to a tall, broad boy a year or son younger than he with black hair, and a strong jaw. 'Milord,' the boy said, as Jory and Jon dismounted too. 'My master is inside.'

'Wait out here,' his father said, turning to he and Jory. 'I won't be too long.'

'Not again,' Jon muttered, as his father led the lad inside.

'Again?' Jory asked, amused.

'Every time I go anywhere I have to wait outside,' Jon said sourly. 'Father seems to think all of King's Landing will take offense to me.'

'Perhaps he's trying to keep you safe,' Jory suggested evenly.

'From Maester Pycelle?' Jon queried incredulously. 'What's he going to do? Fall asleep on me?'

Jory snorted. 'At least it wasn't Littlefinger, that man makes my skin crawl.'

'Never met him,' Jon said, with a shrug. 'Surely he can't be that bad.'

'Yes he can,' Jory told darkly. 'He's a little fellow, thin as Renly, and dressed just as well, but he's got a smug face I really want to hit, and he always talks like he knows something you don't.'

'The Master of Coin?' Jon remembered him being well dressed, and annoyingly smug too.

'If you can recognise a man by that, you know he's prick,' Jory said sagely.

His father came out of the armourer's forge looking troubled, but Jon knew better than to ask, and simply saddled up to return to the Red Keep. Jory followed suit, sagging in disgust the moment they were bag in the sun. Jon let the heat wash over him and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth wrap itself all around him like a thick cloak.

'Didn't even have a chance to buy any wine,' Jory muttered tetchily as they approached the gate to the Red Keep. 'It's going to be a long watch.' Jon groaned quietly, remembering that it was his turn to guard the Tower of the Hand, when really he'd quite like to be blissfully asleep as soon as he could.

Jon's father passed through the gate, and into the stables, but Jon was stuck behind Jory, who'd stopped to talk to Fat Tom in the middle of the way.

'There's a man here who wants to speak with you,' Jory said, as he tied his horse up. 'He wouldn't take off his hood, nor set up his sword, so the others wouldn't let him come in. He's outside in the street waiting for you.'

Jon tied his horse up too, then headed back towards the gate, trying to figure out who would have come to see him.

 _Ned, maybe,_ he supposed.

He was wrong, and so was Jory.

There were two men. One at the gate, and one in the shadows.

'Jon,' the first greeted him cheerfully, and with the familiar voice came a flash of red hair under his hood. 'Ned sends his greetings.'

 _Beric Dondarrion._

'My lord,' Jon greeted cautiously. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?'

'I was hesitant to help you when I met you, actually,' Dondarrion admitted. 'Not your fault, of course, I like you well enough, but for Ned's sake I had Thoros look into the flames for the first time in a decade, just in case you had some other motive in approaching him.' The Lightning Lord grinned easily, and mouthed a name that Jon knew his father would be furious to hear. 'Thoros won't tell me what he saw, and insists on speaking to you himself, so I invited myself along to introduce you.'

The second man came out of the shadows. He had a round head, shaved clean, with dark eyes, and he was tall, an inch taller than Jon, and Jon was taller than all his brothers and his father. Despite the looseness of his robes Jon could tell he was portly, almost fat, but not quite. His size spoke of strength more than excess, and now he was in the torchlight Jon could see his garb was a faded red.

Jon knew him immediately. It was hard to forget a man who fought with a sword that burnt with wildfire. 'Jon Snow,' the man said, amicably. 'Beric asked me to see what R'hllor would show me of you.' He shot his friend a long look. 'The Lord of Light has not spoken to me in a long time, if he ever did at all, but I looked for Beric's sake.'

Beric Dondarrion dipped his head to his friend, and then to Jon, and retreated down the street from the keep, back, Jon suspected, to the inn he was staying at.

'R'hllor?' Jon inquired.

'The Red God, the one true god, or so my order would tell you-' Thoros sighed '-in truth I do not know, I've seen nothing in the fires in a decade, and not for want of looking. Or I hadn't until now.'

 _Oh joy,_ Jon thought dryly. _Red priests, lannisters, kings, perhaps next it will be the high septon._

'I saw a man in white so bright it shone; he glowed like a star where other men were just dull beasts,' Thoros continued softly. 'A white wolf roamed beneath dancing dragons with masked, wooden men, but the skies caught alight with dragonfire, the men burnt, and the wolf was gone.' The red-robed priest's face was shaded in the torchlight, and his voice deep, together they made his words hard to ignore. 'You will see blood, Jon Snow, blood and fire. There is power to be found in those.'

'That doesn't sound like me,' Jon said as lightly as he could manage after hearing that. 'I don't glow at all.'

'Perhaps it is not,' Thoros replied jovially. 'The Lord of Light shows only whatever he deems I need to see, if he shows me anything at all.'

The red priest turned away with that, and Jon was left alone by the gate to tell himself, over and over, that he didn't believe in red gods and flames, and that whatever Thoros had seen in there was nothing but his imagination.

AN: Please read, and review!

P.S. A lot of you really wanted Jon to find something in that Dragonpit didn't you! As interesting as it might be, you'll know - if you've read my other fic - that there are no quick power ups for my protagonists, so alas, there was be no dragon egg lurking in the ruins. And it's probably a good thing they didn't go digging anyway, because I think that was one of the places Aerys stashed wildfire.


	11. Jon VIII

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

Another Jon chapter, and all the fun that entails (for me, at least!). It should start to show the divergences beginning to occur now all three of those little things have happened in the right order.

About updates - I don't really have a schedule, never have. I write when the mood strikes, but by what I've managed in the past I'd reckon I'll manage a chapter or two every week. I am, alas, far too busy to bring any renaissance to those days of at least a chapter a day.

Voila!

 **Jon**

He'd fallen asleep stiff and cold from guard duty with scent of smoke still about him from the torch he'd stood beside, and in his dream he'd found himself on the practice ground at Winterfell. A blade of light was in his hand, and a cloak of milk-white wool across his arms.

The castle had been as clear and real as he could remember it, from the tallest tower to the red leaves of the Weirwood, and all around him were the faces he had known there. Sansa ate lemon cakes with Jeyne and giggled as she pointed proudly down at him, Lady Stark averted her eyes from him, ashamed, abashed, but Robb was grinning, Theon was laughing, and even Bran and Rickon were smiling as he pulled his new cloak about his shoulders. Above them all his father nodded, proud and solemn. Jon read Ashara Dayne's name from his lips before his attention was torn away by a pair of bright emerald eyes, gentle arms, and a soft kiss on his cheek.

Then the queen was gone, and smaller limbs were wrapped about his waist.

Arya grinned from where she had wormed her way through faceless grey-cloaked guards, the old coin she was so proud of clutched in one hand, her dagger in the other. She tugged at the cloak, her desire to be a knight written all over her face.

'Let's toss for it,' she proclaimed, as he mussed her hair, and pulled her hands away.

She tossed the coin high, and everyone stopped to watch it spin above the crowd. Jon didn't see it fall, but he heard it ring true upon the stone between Arya's feet.

'You tricked me again,' she said, scrunching her face up as she plucked it from the stones.

The burnt face of King Aerys sat at the heart of her palm, and in the sun it was as bright and as white as any star.

 _You'll see fire and blood, Jon Snow,_ he heard the red man say softly, though Thoros of Myr was not in the crowd. _There is power there._

'Look,' Arya cried, suddenly thrusting an arm skywards.

Hazy dragons loomed there in the clouds, scales as dark as the skulls of the Red Keep, their tattered wings as wide as the world, and Winterfell cried out in wonder, but when they swooped down everything dissolved into flame.

The heat had covered him, smothered him, and he pressed his eyes shut, flinching away from what he knew was death, but when the fire passed he was alone on a plain of sticky ash, with red drenched palms, and Jaime Lannister.

His twisted, bitter smile and bared blade made Jon take a step back. Behind Jaime Lannister stood silent wraiths in white gilt armour, and a prince of spun silver whose face was blurred and bent, though Jon somehow knew it would be beautiful but for its ugly hunger.

'We want to test that blade of yours,' Jaime Lannister said, his smile all sharpness. 'That's all a knight is, Jon Snow, a sword sheathed in chivalry. Draw yours; we want to see if a bastard can be worthy.'

The blade that had glowed white before was now just dull iron, nicked, battered and worn, and Jon felt the white cloak slip from his shoulders onto the ash.

The white-cloaked shadows watched it slowly stain red at his feet, and he bowed his head in shame for tainting it. He felt very small before the golden smiling knight whose gilded blade stretched towards him, and a tongue of envy caught alight within him.

'I want your sword,' he said bitterly, but he meant his birth, that true, pure thing he lacked that set him so far apart from his siblings.

'Then you shall have it,' Jaime replied, and somehow the Kingslayer was suddenly behind him.

He thrust his golden sword through Jon's back.

There was no pain, not even when he pulled the blade out and watched him fall. 'If only you had not been born a bastard,' the Kingslayer said. 'You could have been my brother in white.' And the blood ran all down his chest, sparkling like rubies on his dark leathers in the sun that rose resplendent into the sky above them.

'It's dawn, Jon,' Jaime Lannister called down to him, holding his blood-smeared golden sword up in the light of daybreak so it glowed. ' _Dawn.'_

'Jon,' Jory said again, poking him hard in the in the back. 'It's dawn. Lord Stark has been up all night reading in his solar, so we have nothing to do today in the city of the keep.'

'You woke me to tell me that?' Jon demanded, annoyed, but almost grateful he'd been dragged from his dream. It was worse even than the ones he'd had on the kingsroad of scattered black feathers, and cold, eager lips pressed so softly against his.

 _Damn Thoros and his flames,_ he thought sourly. _And damn Jaime Lannister too._

'I will be riding north by midday,' Jory told him, as Jon swung himself from his rough bed and out of the bright light of the dawn to dress.

 _I'd forgotten that,'_ Jon thought, and suddenly all his dreams of white cloaks were only so much ash after all. Ghost poked his head up from where he had curled upon the floor and whined softly, his red eyes sad.

'You won't be,' Jory told him kindly. 'Lord Stark has decided you should stay a little longer.'

'Why?' Jon asked warily. His father seemed more likely to have Jory tie him to his saddle when they rode than offer him another chance down south.

'Not sure,' Jory admitted. 'Lord Stark was out in the city with that prick, Littlefinger, last evening, took only Wyl, Heward and myself with him. He seemed troubled, but not overly so.'

'Another trip to the armoury?' Jon asked curiously. Jory said nothing, and Jon scowled.

 _Another secret not for me,_ he realised sourly.

'We're going to the godswood,' he declared, strapping his simple blade to his hip and crossing to the door. Ghost rose behind him to drift silently in his wake.

'I was hoping you'd help me with your sisters,' Jory said wryly.

'I need to think,' Jon told him bleakly. He wanted to be outside, alone, as he had not seemed to manage since coming to King's Landing.

'I suppose I shall have to learn to deal with your sisters soon anyhow,' Jory said, sighing gently. 'Would that Lord Stark had had more sons.'

Jon left him in the corridor to lament his position. He didn't envy him either, already he could hear Sansa and Arya bickering from their room, screaming at each other about Joffrey, it sounded. Sansa, he knew, thought the prince handsome, and his little sister was being quite vocal about how she thought him ugly and spoilt. His father's shadow in the door had his face in his hands.

The godswood was only a short walk from the Tower of the Hand, it sat between the throne room, and Maegor's Keep, a small patch of green in the swell of red stone, but Jon knew the moment he stepped into it that it was not the same as the one in Winterfell.

There was no heart tree, he knew that already, of course, but the grove felt empty of the presence he'd come to find, another patch of woodland out of the sight of the gods.

 _There are no gods in the south,_ he thought sullenly, as he roved the trees.

There was a great old oak where the weirwood tree would have sat, and red dragon's breath wildly swamped about its roots. It looked as good a seat as any, so Jon settled himself upon a root arch there, and idly drifted his fingers through the leaves of the dragon's breath in hope that his worry would ease.

It didn't.

The dragon's breath reminded him of his dream, of Jaime Lannister's sword through his back, the dawn, the blood and fire, and the words of the red man Beric Dondarrion had sent to him.

 _Perhaps it would not be so terrible to go back to Winterfell_.

There'd been no such stress there, just Lady Stark, and her cold cold loathing, a hatred that would be all the worse now that they had lost Bran. His heart twisted, and he pushed himself up. He'd die before he spent his life with such a cold woman in Winterfell.

 _I have no place in the north,_ he reminded himself. _I am no Stark._

It had been days since he'd had to think it, a week even, for many in King's Landing didn't know him, didn't notice him, or didn't care.

 _I mustn't forget,_ he told himself sternly.

'Snow,' he told the oak tree, as if the old gods could still hear him. 'Jon _Snow_.'

The leaves whispered in the breeze, just as the red swathed branches of the weirwood did, but the gods could not see or hear him here, and he stalked sullenly away back through the alders and the middle bailey, lost in his thoughts.

Inevitably he ended up in front of the White Sword Tower when his head cleared, seated on a stone in its shadow, toying with the ugly, worn, nicked blade across his lap, and staring at the ground.

'You're a melancholy one,' a deep voice said, as two shadows fell across him. Ser Barristan the Bold stood between him and Ser Jaime Lannister, a relaxed hand upon the hilt of his blade.

'And far from the Tower of the Hand,' Jaime Lannister remarked, eyeing his sword with as much distaste as humour. 'You'll need a better blade than that if you ever want to join us in there.'

'I'll need to be a squire first too, Ser Jaime,' Jon told him sourly. 'And a knight after, and then recognised for it despite everything else.'

'Aye,' Ser Barristan agreed calmly. 'You will, but I daresay if you step onto that path you'll find your way here swiftly enough.' He stepped in front of Ser Jaime when the younger knight started to move towards Jon. 'We should be with the king,' he said firmly.

'I'll linger for a moment,' Jaime Lannister decided. 'By your leave, commander.'

Ser Barristan frowned, his brows dipped so far down Jon could see them through visor of his helm, but the lord commander of the Kingsguard said nothing further before he left.

'You look like someone stole your wolf, Jon Snow,' Jaime Lannister said, taking a seat on the step beside him, and pushing his blade away from his legs with a finger on its tip. 'But I can see that's not the case.'

'Only a fool would try and take Ghost, ser,' Jon replied distantly, tangling his fingers absently in Ghost's hair.

'The wolf would probably take a hand,' Jaime Lannister said, but he watched Ghost with no trepidation at all. 'I'd like to keep both of mine, though I suppose I could spare the left.'

Jon said nothing.

'You lot are all quite quiet and miserable, aren't you,' the knight said slyly. 'Still thinking about squiring, are you?'

'Or not squiring, ser,' Jon said sullenly, 'since that seems the more likely.'

'I'd do it myself if I thought I could,' Jaime Lannister said. His smile was all sharpness, and Jon was reminded very much of his dream, so much so that he touched two fingers to the point he recalled the golden blade bursting through. 'It'd be worth it to see the look on Lord Stark's face, but he'd never stand for it, and my father wouldn't either.'

'Why would you want to have a bastard for a squire anyway, Ser Jaime?' Jon asked bitterly.

Jaime Lannister looked at him more seriously, all the humour washed from his face. 'A Lannister always pays his debts,' he answered simply. 'And even the Kingslayer has his debts to pay.'

Jon could conceive of no debt squiring him would pay, nothing beyond some nostalgic loyalty to the only man who would have likely been even less inclined to have him in King's Landing than his father had he lived.

 _Ashara Dayne,_ he thought sourly, half wishing he'd never heard the name. _A bastard in the North is still a bastard in the South._

He wasn't sure how he could have really ever expected anything different.

'I'll talk to Ser Barristan,' Jaime Lannister was saying beside him. 'He might know of a knight or two.' He rose smoothly to his feet, taking Jon's sword with him, and that sharp sly smile was back. 'I'd wager you'll be a squire within the hour, provided I ask Ser Barristan loudly enough.'

Jon wasn't sure what that meant, and though it sounded good Jaime Lannister's smile made him uneasy, so he extended a hand for his sword instead.

'Really?' Ser Jaime said lightly. 'Are you sure you'd not prefer I mislaid it?'

'The longer I am in the city, ser, the more I get the feeling I shall need it,' Jon replied. Jaime Lannister flipped the old sword around to catch it by the blade, and passed it back to him without a word.

'I should be joining Ser Barristan,' he told Jon. 'He is the only respectable member of the kingsguard left, so I daresay I should try not to disappoint him any further than I already have done.'

 _Try not to kill this king, then,_ Jon thought wryly, but Jaime Lannister somehow seemed to read that from his face, and his departing nod to Jon was a toucher cooler than it might have otherwise been.

Jon sheathed his battered blade and followed him towards the middle bailey, albeit at a healthy distance, with Ghost quietly padding beside him.

The bailey was full of carriages, and men in grey and white. Jon counted almost every man his father had brought to Winterfell among them, and Sansa waited patiently with septa by the door to the tower. Arya waited with significantly less patience, and Jon smiled a little at her frustrated scowl.

 _Nothing will ever change Arya,_ he thought fondly.

His smile faded as he drew close enough to see their faces. Sansa's eyes were shadowed, and her face puffy. The girl Lady Stark had told was even more beautiful than she and her sister had been looked wan, drawn and drab. Arya's eyes were reddened too, angrily rubbed raw if Jon knew his sister half as well as he thought he did.

'We're leaving just as soon as all of Sansa's luggage is loaded,' Jory told him from the shade of the stables. 'You'd be wise to say goodbye, Lord Stark ordered us to leave as soon as we were able, and not to linger on the road.'

Jon nodded, and turned away, then paused, and turned back. 'Everyone here?'

'Yes,' Jory replied seriously. 'Heward, Wyl, and you, you are the only men who are staying behind with your father.'

'Three of us?' Jon stared at him incredulously. 'In _King's Landing_?'

'There are some men of the Night's Watch he trusts coming down too who'll go with you when you come back north, but I don't think Lord Stark is planning on staying here much longer,' Jory replied. 'He's been pacing a hole in the floor of his solar since breaking up your sister's little spat about Joffrey this morning.'

'I'll say goodbye,' Jon said, thoughts swirling.

 _What is father up to?_ he wondered, as he cross the bailey towards Arya, Sansa and the septa. He'd been pacing, and worrying even before Jon's brother had been killed, but refused to share anything with anyone save Littlefinger and the Spider, and neither struck Jon as immediately trustworthy.

'Jon,' Arya greeted, wriggling past the septa's arm to meet him just before he got to the door. Nymeria, who'd been stalking in swift circles around Lady in between the carriages, paused to cock her head at he and Ghost, whining gently.

'Hello, little sister,' Jon said softly, tugging gently at her messy hair. 'I've come to say goodbye.'

The septa bustled past them onto the carriage, and Sansa drifted past, almost stopping, but slowing to murmur a rushed, abashed farewell he almost missed instead.

'Goodbye, Sansa,' Jon replied politely, as Arya tugged herself free of his hands.

'You're not coming with us?' she asked, wide-eyed, and still.

'No,' Jon answered, and they both ignored the gesturing of the septa that Arya needed to leave. 'I'm staying with father for a little bit longer.'

'You'll be safe, won't you?' Arya almost begged.

'Nobody bothers killing bastards,' Jon assured her. 'I'm quite safe.'

'You'll keep father safe too?' Arya's fingers were clenched into little fists, and Jon had to gently pry them open to take her hands in his.

'I'll keep him safe,' Jon promised. 'I'll be at his side all the while.'

'Good.' Arya sighed. 'Nobody can best you, not even Robb, or Jory!'

'A knight could,' Sansa muttered in the carriage. 'Ser Loras would.'

Jon ignored her, even though she was likely right. The knight of flowers would cut him to ribbons in short order, and that's if Jon was lucky enough to be on foot against him. Loras Tyrell would put a lance right through him even more easily.

'Jon would trample all over your silly flowery knight!' Arya declared hotly. 'You're so stupid, Sansa!'

'You have to go, little sister,' Jon told her. 'I'll see you when we come back to Winterfell-' he glanced at where Jory was mounting up at the head of the group '-I hope it won't be long.'

'I hope not too,' Arya whispered, clutching at his waist one last time before she retreated into the carriage, Nymeria bounding in beside her.

Arya waved at him as the carriage moved away, but the septa drew the curtain across as they went out into the city, and Jon turned back to the Tower of the Hand after the carriage had passed out of sight.

Heward and Wyl were both outside his father's door, but they let him in without a word when he approached.

'Jon,' his father said tiredly, looking up from where he was writing what appeared to be at least the tenth version of the same letter. 'You're the captain of the guard now Jory has gone.'

 _Captain of three,_ Jon thought dryly, but he was elated all the same.

'Thank you, father,' Jon replied. 'But why did you not send me back with Sansa, and my sister?'

'I need at least one good sword that I can trust here with me,' his father said. 'That's you or Jory, it seems, since I've had Beric Dondarrion declaring you Brandon Stark reborn every time I cannot evade him. While I'd rather you were safely home in Winterfell, I think Jory will object less to having to leave.' His face stiffened. 'My lady wife will prefer he lead the guards protecting Arya and Sansa as well, no doubt.'

 _No doubt,_ Jon thought bitterly.

'Still,' his father continued. 'We'll be leaving soon as well, I think.' His fingers strayed to the silver hand on his doublet. 'I'm not suited to King's Landing, the heat disagrees with me.'

 _Along with all the small council,_ Jon didn't dare to day. He'd overheard that in the corridors of Maegor's Keep often enough when the maids and men hadn't recognised him right away.

There was a tentative knock at the door. 'My lord?' Heward called through. 'There's some little lannister to see you.'

Jon's father froze, then hurriedly swept his letters into the great treatise on lineages, closed the book, and thrust out of sight. Jon blinked, startled by the sudden urgency. He blinked again when his father moved Ice a little closer to hand.

'Send him in,' his father instructed.

The lannister boy that crept in was as blond-haired and green-eyed as all his kin, smartly dressed, but unarmed. A touch older than himself, Jon reckoned, but an inch or so shorter.

'Lancel Lannister, Lord Stark,' he greeted, not yet noticing Jon. 'King Robert requests the presence of your son in his chambers.'

He caught sight of Jon then, and the look he directed at him was bitterest loathing.

 _I seem have attracted the attention of another Lannister,_ Jon realised, and wanted desperately to groan, and laugh about it with Jory, or Robb, or Arya, or even Theon.

His father was stood quite still, remaining just the two steps from Ice. 'Did the king mention why?' he asked carefully.

'Yes,' Lancel ground out. 'He said that if a dragon can have two wives, then a stag can have two squires, my lord.'

 _The king,_ Jon realised, remembering Jaime's words not even an hour hence, and the sly smile he'd said them with. _Damn the man,_ he thought, unsure if he should thank him or curse him.

His father sighed, and sagged back into his seat. 'Go with Lancel, Jon,' he said, with great reluctance. 'Robert will get what he wants one way or another. He is the king.'

Jon shared none of his father's reluctance as he followed the lannister boy out of the Tower of the Hand and towards Maegor's Keep. Lancel Lannister was walking as swiftly as he was able, as if he hoped he could lose Jon on the way, and be rid of him that way.

 _He must be angry that the king has taken another squire,_ Jon thought, a touch of guilt in his gut.

He tried to catch up to Lancel to tell him it had not been his intention for this to happen, but the lannister boy never let him, climbing stairs, and crossing corridors at such speed Jon could barely keep him in sight.

It was only when they reached the doors to the chamber that the young lannister squire paused for long enough for speech. 'Her grace hopes you have a moment of time to indulge her curiosity once you have spoken to the king,' he said poisonously, his green eyes filled with bitter fire.

'I'm sure I will,' Jon replied dryly. It seemed very unwise to refuse the queen and offend her when she deigned to speak with someone so far below her station as he was.

Lancel pushed the door open without another word, and Jon's apology died on his lips. Ser Barristan and Jaime Lannister stood unobtrusively against the walls, their helms in their hands. The elder knight was frowning gravely, but Ser Jaime's eyes were alight with mischief, and if Jon had held any doubt that this was his doing it died then.

'Come in, boy,' Robert commanded loudly, waving a hand impatiently in his direction. 'Get over here!'

Jon approached cautiously, but swiftly, aware that tarrying was likely to irritate Robert Baratheon and not grant him the best start as his squire.

 _Or half of his squires._

He was also very aware of the Queen, who sat quietly at the table in the sun, sipping wine elegantly from a goblet as gold as her hair, and watching him closely with sharp, green eyes.

'Well, boy,' the king boomed, 'aren't you going to thank me?'

'Thank you, your grace,' Jon replied immediately. 'It's a great honour.'

The king snorted. 'You sound like your father, Jon Snow. _It's an honour, your grace._ He said that when I pinned the role of hand on him, but he's not thanked me once since coming here, has he!' He emptied his wine cup, and gave a great sigh. 'No, it's no honour. You'll fetch and carry for me, help me with my armour in all my battles-' the king snorted again '-and generally make a nuisance of yourself as I try and drink and whore myself into an early grave while your father rules the realm for me.' He slapped his belly as he laughed, then paused, and looked thoughtful. 'This is the least I could do for Ned,' he said, more soberly. 'The moment the Kingslayer opened his mouth to Barristan I knew I should.'

 _Thank you Ser Jaime,_ Jon thought wryly, but he didn't dare turn to look at the knight, because he knew the man would be laughing quietly.

The king pushed himself up from the table he sat drinking at, and strode heavily across to where a cloth wrapped bundle lay across a chair. 'This is for you, Jon Snow,' he said thickly, but that deep, dark glint was back in eyes all of a sudden, and Jon had a serious urge to step back from him.

Jon swallowed hard as he accepted it, and began to peel back the layers very tentatively.

The huge hand of the king seized his, pinning it to the bundle. 'No, boy,' he said grimly, and Jon could smell the wine and sweat on him now he was closer. 'Don't open that before me.'

'Your grace?' Jon dared to inquire.

'It's a sword,' the king told him, releasing his hand. 'One of three pieces of valyrian steel I found in that mad bastard's armoury. It's not finished, as you'll see, I meant to have a crown of antlers about the hilt as well, but-' the king glanced at his wife, whose face had gone stiff, still, and as pale as milk '-it would not have been right to pass it on to my son as I once intended.'

'I don't know what to say, your grace,' Jon admitted. If the king was telling the truth, and it was not some cruel, drunken jest, then he'd just been gifted a blade men would trade limbs for.

'Yes, boy,' the king boomed, 'you say yes.' A shadow crossed his face, and he leant in so close none of the rest could hear. 'You take that damnably bitter thing away from me, Jon Snow,' he murmured dangerously. 'And if you wear it in my presence without the hilt wrapped in cloth, I'll send you back to Lady Stark in two pieces.'

'Yes, your grace,' Jon said, wrapping the cloth as tightly as he could about the sword. His heart was hammering at his ribs, and cold sweat trickled along his spine.

 _The king is half-mad,_ he thought. _And cunning enough to hide it half the time._

Not for the first time Jon wished he looked more like his other parent, but where it had once been to avert stares, and spare his family shame, now he wanted nothing more than to be free of Robert Baratheon's attention.

'Does it have a name you'd wish for me to use, your grace?' he inquired quietly, not wanting to offend the man by not using it, and not wanting to risk that deep, dark anger if it had one the king did not want to hear.

'I never named it,' the king said, slumping back down in his chair. 'Call it what you like, or nothing at all.' But Jon heard the king sigh as he raised his glass, and he heard him say _Winter Queen_ beneath his breath when nobody else did.

 _I can never call it that,_ he knew, but he couldn't name it anything less now he'd heard it, not without insulting a love that had toppled a dynasty, and his own family. _If the king hears me say it I'll be sent back so close to Lady Stark my father will grow jealous and angry,_ he thought dryly. That nearly made him laugh, because his father was Eddard Starkm and he probably wasn't capable of jealousy.

'I'm going into the city,' the king declared thickly, pushing himself up from the table, and staggering towards the door. 'Kingslayer. Barristan.'

The two knights of the kings guard trailed out after their king. Barristan had the same frown he'd worn upon seeing Jon, but Jaime Lannister looked the closest thing to furious Jon had ever seen him. He chanced a glance at the Queen, but her face was a tight, unreadable mask as she stared at some point on the wall past Jon's shoulder.

 _She doesn't seem like she wants to talk to me,_ Jon decided, and gathered the cloth wrapped blade to leave.

'Take a seat, Jon Snow,' Cersei Lannister said softly, indicating the one opposite her. The dignified mask had softened to a small, heart-stopping smile, and Jon wasn't sure if that or the king's dark anger had made his heart beat fastest.

He slipped into the seat, tucking the blade across his lap. 'Your grace.'

'The king will want more wine when he returns, Lancel,' the queen said pointedly, and the other squire left immediately, though he spared a moment to shoot Jon another fiery glare.

The door shut behind him, and Cersei Lannister put her goblet down, pulling her chair round so close next to Jon's her golden tumbled onto his arm. He could smell the sweet scent of cedar, and some sharp blossom upon her, and tried his hardest not to stare at the slender arch of her neck, or the swell of her breasts.

'You're a fortunate boy, Jon,' she said, not unkindly. 'There are very very few men who share the nature of your birth, and got so close to a king.' Her emerald eyes were piercing above her gentle smile. 'They were likely all dragons too,' she added. 'You never had the chance to meet or see one, but they were royal like you cannot understand, even their misbegotten children, and while Aerys was a monster, his son Rhaegar was the noblest man I've ever known.'

 _So noble,_ Jon thought darkly. _The North remembers._

'I was nearly his queen, rather than Robert's,' Cersei Lannister continued, leaning forwards to retrieve her goblet, and spilling her hair across Jon's arm in earnest. 'But I don't have to wonder which would have made a better king.' The golden cascade of her hair lingered there after she had leant back, and Jon regarded it awkwardly from the corner of his eye, wondering if he should move his arm, or leave it be.

In the end he decided that if Cersei wasn't going to move away, he'd quite prefer to stay where he was.

'You should thank my brother Jaime when you see him,' the queen told him. 'He knew what he was doing.'

'Oh I know, your grace,' Jon said wryly. 'And he knows I know.'

The Queen laughed gently, gracing Jon with the same bright flash of a smile. 'He has taken a liking to you,' she said gently. 'You remind us both of him, so quick with your blade, and so set on a white cloak, and he is reminded of Ser Arthur Dayne, though you are quieter than either ever was.'

'I'm honoured, your grace,' Jon replied courteously. 'I fear Ser Jaime has misjudged me though, I am told I was a child more interested in music and books than the song of swords.'

The queen took that with a slightly raised eyebrow, and the slightest hint of sadness. 'You are honoured more than you know, Jon Snow,' she told him, 'but less than one day you might deserve.' Cersei Lannister sipped from her goblet, then set it down, brushing Jon's fingers as she did. His heart throbbed wildly at the gentle touch, and Jon hoped to all the gods he could name and any he could not that the queen couldn't hear it.

'Jaime laments the state of the Kingsguard most bitterly, you know. He served with knights who were legends, and now the king is protected by men you wouldn't recognise without their cloaks.' The queen shook her head, and took Jon's hand in hers. 'I love my son, Jon Snow, I would have him protected by men like my brother, and like Ser Arthur Dayne. There is nothing I wouldn't do to keep him safe.'

Jon didn't need the gentle warmth of her hand over his, nor the finger's length away bright-eyed, earnest stare to see that was the truth. 'If I was ever honoured with a white cloak, I would do everything in my power to protect my king, your grace,' he said awkwardly.

'I know you would,' Cersei Lannister said softly, and Jon felt her knee brush his beneath the table. 'You've inherited your father's honour, and a great knight it may make you if the gods are kind.' She leant back and released his hand, flicking her hair off his arm and over her shoulder with her finger. 'Do you mind if I look?' she asked, gesturing to the bundle.

'No,' Jon said slowly.

'The king won't know,' she promised him, sliding the sword easily from his lap, and Jon gulped when the back of her hand ran along the length of his thigh, sure that he was flushing obviously.

Cersei Lannister didn't unwrap the blade full, but unfolded the end, and peeked down the length of it. 'One of Rhaegar's rubies,' she breathed, tapping the pommel. 'Robert boasted of keeping one after the Trident, I always did wonder what became of it.'

Jon twitched uncomfortably. _Did he really give me such a thing?_ But he knew the answer was yes, and no. The king had not given it to him, he'd wanted it gone, and Jon was the best vessel he'd be quietly rid of it by. Any other man could boast of it, would boast of it, but Jon could not, not without entangling himself in between Lady Stark and his siblings.

 _She'd not have a blade like this wielded by her husband's bastard if she could have it given to one of her son's instead._

'Don't let my son see this,' the queen told him, returning the blade. 'I would not have him wield it; it was not meant for lions, but he will want it if he learns of it.'

'Of course, your grace,' Jon promised, and he tucked Winter Queen safely away beneath his cloak.

The emerald eyes of the beautiful lannister queen watched him all the way out the door, and Jon was both relieved to be away from her, and torn that he could not be so close to her again.

 _My father is really not going to be pleased by any of this,_ Jon realised somewhat belatedly, as the warmth Cersei Lannister's touch and smile faded enough for him to think more clearly. _At least the king will let me keep the sword when I get sent back to Winterfell,_ he supposed.

AN: Please read and review, I enjoy every last one (except the ones from people who don't understand the rules of British publishing on single and double quotes, of course, those still annoy me), and thank you to everyone that has and does!


	12. Jon IX

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

Next chapter!

 **Jon**

The door banged open, and Jon nearly leapt out of his skin. Somehow the flagon of beer he had been bringing up for the king didn't spill, just sloshed noisily in his arms.

'You're father's a damn fool!' the king raged. His face was daubed a furious mottled red and purple. 'Give me that, Jon,' he commanded, thrusting one meaty palm towards the flagon.

Jon wisely surrendered it. Lancel, he noted, had scurried out the moment the king arrived.

 _Craven,_ he thought disgustedly, not overwhelmed by gratitude about being left to weather the king's moods alone.

'Ned thinks I should just let that Targaryen whore whelp her brat, and then wait for some new fire-mad, inbred monster to come across the Narrow Sea to rape whom he pleases,' the king spat, smearing foam from the bitterly strong black beer through his scraggly beard. He took another long drink, then thrust the empty flagon back into Jon's arms so hard he staggered backwards. 'Just because she's the same age as you, Ned thinks we shouldn't kill her, as if she's not a threat just because she's a _girl_.' The king twisted round at him. 'Well?! Are you going to say anything, boy?! If I wanted cold silence, I'd go find my damn wife!'

'My father does what he thinks is right, your grace,' Jon replied bravely. 'Someone in this city has to.'

Robert Baratheon snorted loudly, and belched. 'Your father's a fool if he thinks doing the right thing ever kept this headache on anyone's skull.'

'It's not right to kill children all the same,' Jon ventured seriously.

'Don't you think I know that!' the king bellowed. 'You're as bad as he is!' He slumped down into his chair, groping for his goblet of wine that Lancel had filled before he'd meekly fled. 'Ah,' the king sighed thickly. 'Who would've thought that I'd've ended up here, boy. I went to war with a man because he murdered innocents, now here I am sitting on that man's bloody chair doing the same despicable acts as he did.'

'Your grace?' Jon asked warily.

'The gods love bitter japes, Jon Snow,' the king told him darkly. 'That dragon brat out there, he's _me_ , and here I am, playing at being _Aerys_ -' Robert Baratheon spat disgustedly into the empty fireplace '-it's enough to drive a man mad.' He twisted about from his chair, and his face was full of shadows dead four and ten years ago. 'I wonder who gets to play _Rhaegar?_ ' he said, his voice thick with wine and bitterness. 'Which beautiful, foul son of mine will start the madness again, which monstrous stag will the dragon brat kill so heroically.' His laughter was dark, dark as Winterfell's Crypts, but far more chilling, and Jon felt the hairs rise along the nape of his neck.

 _He's halfway to being a mad king, that's the gods' truth._

'Ah,' the king said softly, 'don't listen to me, Jon Snow, or, if you do, remember not to end up king.' He laughed again, more mirthfully this time. 'That'd be worth a song or two, Robert Baratheon, the sellsword king who left his crown to a bastard Stark rather than his true born songs.'

'They'd not be happy songs, your grace,' Jon said dryly. 'There'd be rebellion in minutes.'

'Your northmen have no humour,' the king grumbled. 'But Ned was always the one who should have been king, not me, so you'd rule well enough, I'd wager.'

'I wouldn't want to upset your wife and your children, your grace,' Jon replied diplomatically.

'No,' the king boomed, ' _gods_ no, that lioness would eat your heart before she let you wear my crown.' He took a deep breath, and fumbled in his silks for a moment before he pulled out a familiar silver badge. 'Take this thing to your father, Jon,' the king commanded. 'Tell him if he refuses I'm going to stick it on the nearest lannister, and if he refuses still, pin it on him yourself. I'll expect to see his stiff frozen face here when I get back from hunting, regardless of what happened with the girl.'

'Hunting, your grace?' Jon asked carefully.

'I've had enough of the Red Keep, boy,' the king groused. 'I want to be outside, on my horse, and if I can't wield my warhammer anymore, then a hunting spear will have to do.' He pushed himself heavily out of his chair. 'I'll take the lannister boy, not you, you can have a break from your _honourable duties_. Ser Barristan can have you, he seems proud enough of teaching you.'

'Thank you, your grace,' Jon replied politely, knowing better than to disagree about Ser Barristan, who seemed mostly indifferent to him at best, or to reveal how relieved he really felt.

'Get out, Jon Snow,' the king commanded darkly. 'Before I remember how angry I am with your father, and decide to legitimise you.'

A very tiny part of Jon wondered if it would be so terrible if he stayed, but the rest of him was wiser, and so Jon took a leaf from Lancel Lannister's book and promptly fled.

'You're braver than my little sparrow of a cousin.' Ser Jaime Lannister caught him before he'd done anything but shut the doors to the king's chambers. His partner was a man Jon had never spoken to, Aerys Oakheart. The way the knight of the kingsguard was pretending he couldn't see him suggested he would never speak to him either.

 _Not fond of bastards,_ Jon deduced sourly.

'Less wise, perhaps, ser,' Jon replied eventually. Ser Jaime smiled.

'Well, he's not the only one avoiding the king, it seems. Renly looked like he had Aegon the Conqueror himself on his heels when he rode out this morning.' Ser Jaime Lannister's humour faded, and his eyes hardened. 'I don't suppose you know why your father needed to speak to my sister?'

'No, ser,' Jon replied, hoping whatever it was, it had nothing to do with him.

'A shame,' the knight replied earnestly. 'But know that if Lord Stark hurts her I'll grant him the same courtesy I showed Aerys, no matter who stands between us. I hope you will not hold it against me.'

'I think you will have to stab my father in the front,' Jon told the Kingslayer coldly.

'Yes, I imagine I would,' Ser Jaime said wryly. 'He's not going to run, I'll say that much for him.'

'If you attack the Hand of the King the king will put your head on a spike over the gate before your sister can say anything in your defence,' Jon warned. 'And that's if my father doesn't put your head there himself.'

Ser Jaime smiled sharply. 'Lord Stark would certainly like to, though he's no Hand right now.' He drew Jon up the corridor a ways away from Aerys Oakheart, his gauntleted fingers digging deep into Jon's shoulder. 'Let me tell you a little about your father, Jon Snow, the things the ever so honourable Eddard Stark likes to forget when he judges others.'

'My father-'

'Listen, Jon Snow,' Ser Jaime cut across him shortly. 'If you haven't guessed who she is by now then you're more a fool than I ever took you for, so I shan't dance around it any longer. Lord Stark cut down Ser Arthur Dayne, and two other of my brothers in Dorne, with the help of six others, and then he took both the Sword of Morning's body and Dawn back to his sister, stopping only for an hour before he rode north with you. Ashara Dayne threw herself off the top of the tower the next day.' His green eyes were alight with green fire. 'That's the _honour_ Eddard Stark clings to.'

Jon wanted to retort, but there was nothing he could say. _I've heard all that before,_ he realised. _I just hadn't strung it together like that._

And at last he had some kind of an answer as to why his father refused to speak about his mother.

'So when your father looks down upon me, calls me kingslayer, like all the other fools, he's as much a hypocrite as any knight who fought for Robert.'

'You did kill the king you swore to protect,' Jon heard himself say.

 _Stupid,_ he cursed himself. _Stupid bastard._ If Jaime had any desire to see whether he lived up to his uncle's reputation he would have more than enough reason to do so now.

'I did,' Ser Jaime Lannister said curtly. 'I put my sword through his back, just as they all told you I did, and I wonder to this day if any of my brothers would not have.' He glanced up and down the corridor. 'Aerys didn't even notice when I first drove it into his gut, he was too busy dreaming of how the city would look ablaze with wildfire, then he squealed like a pig, and bled out on the floor.' Jon blanched. 'Tell me, Jon Snow,' Jaime Lannister said thinly, 'would your father consider letting a whole city burn just because his king commanded it _honourable?_ '

'No,' Jon said quietly, knowing his father would refuse such a distasteful command at once.

 _He just did._

'Not at all,' Ser Jaime said, releasing his shoulder. 'Robert would have been king over ashes and dust if I had not, the Mad King said so himself. A whole city burnt just like your grandfather was, and instead of asking _why_ I had done it, your father took one look at me, and turned away.' Jaime Lannister straightened up. 'What was just about that?'

He didn't wait for an answer, just swept back to his post outside the king's door, placing his helm pointedly back upon his head.

Jon took a deep breath, then followed his feet back towards the Tower of the Hand. His father was writing another letter when he entered his solar, to Stannis Baratheon Jon noticed.

'Jon,' he greeted, surprised. 'Has Robert sent you to put my head on a spike?'

Jon blinked. 'No, father,' he said slowly, and put the silver badge down upon the desk surface.

'Tell him no,' his father said bluntly. 'I'll not put my name to such a deed.'

'What happened to the king always gets what he wants in the end?' Jon asked softly. 'And the deed is done already, the king says.'

'Damn the man,' his father said grimly, but he took the silver hand and pinned it upon his breast. 'Littlefinger said as much, though he spared the crown the cost of an assassin and called it mercy. The girls fourteen, not more than a week older than you. Gods, Jon, I remember when the bodies of little Rhaenys and Aegon were put at his feet in lannister cloaks. They were children, stabbed more times than I can count, and there was nothing left of the boy's skull. Robert saw them and smiled.' His father shook his head in disgust. 'Can he not find someone else?'

'He said if you refused he'd pin it on the first lannister he saw,' Jon told him.

'And he would too.' His father sighed, then stood to walk around the desk. 'How is squiring for him?'

'It's fine,' Jon replied, and for the most part it was true.

The king spent most of his time away in the city with his whores, sleeping, eating, or drinking, all of which required very little of Jon so long as he was not the one left to inform the queen where here husband was. Jon hated doing that. He wanted no part in causing Cersei Lannister such shame. The king had considered showing him some of the things he had learnt when he was squiring in the Vale, but he'd remembered Jon's blade halfway to the yard, and passed him off onto Ser Barristan instead. The elderly knight had been gracious enough to teach Jon all he could, going far farther than Jon had ever expected him to, and he supposed he was actually very lucky, for Ser Barristan was a great knight.

 _Certainly a greater one that Robert Baratheon would have been._

'The king treats you well enough?' his father asked carefully.

'Well enough,' Jon agreed. 'He gave me a new sword,' he said, by way of proof.

'Can I see?' his father asked, and Jon immediately regretted the offhand comment.

 _Damn,_ he thought, but he drew the blade and passed it across all the same _._

' _Valyrian steel_ ,' his father breathed, turning it over in his hands, then he pulled the cloth back from the hilt, and paled as white as milk-glass. 'Robert _gave_ you this?' he demanded, tracing one finger over the laughing face wrought in crimson upon the grip. The face had been sad once, Jon could see where it had been altered when his father tilted the blade a certain way before the light.

'Yes,' Jon answered.

It was a bastard blade, a hand and a half of hilt, easily wielded by any and all with a little practice, even if they favoured a different weapon, and Jon thought it a terribly beautiful thing. The smoke grey steel was full of the ripples Valyrian Steel was known for from its elegant tip to the hilt that the king had meant to add a cluster of antlers too. The guard remained the pale extended, gnarled roots of a weirwood tree for now, fashioned by some master of their craft before the Doom. The grip of the blade was the similarly pale tree's trunk, and the pommel the start of the canopy, though the only red there was Rhaegar's ruby.

'It's a beautiful blade,' his father said sadly, returning it to Jon's hands. 'Does it have a name?'

'No,' Jon said.

 _Yes,_ he thought. _Winter Queen._

He knew better than to tell his father, though. His father would know, of course, and Jon feared what he would do if he knew Jon was carrying a blade intended for the children of the king and Lyanna Stark.

 _Take it back to Winterfell,_ Jon reckoned. _He'd give it to Rickon in a few years time._ Lady Stark would insist on it, for Winter Queen would surely be a Stark blade, and should be wielded by a true Stark, not by him.

'A blade like that deserves a name,' his father told him. 'A good one.'

'I'll think of one,' Jon lied. He slipped it back into its sheath, and wrapped the cloth tightly back around the hilt and pommel.

His father nodded approvingly. 'That's not a small ruby,' he commented idly.

'The king kept it after the Trident,' Jon said. 'The queen told me.'

His father opened his mouth, then closed it and sat back down in his chair. He was silent for a long moment before he put his hands on the surface of the desk and broke the quiet. 'You've been speaking to the queen?' he asked carefully.

'She wanted to talk to me,' Jon explained. 'She wanted to make sure Joffrey didn't find out about the sword and try to take it.' His father's face stiffened with every word, so Jon left out the handful of times she'd spoken to him after. The queen had only been kindly asking after his wellbeing.

'It would be wise, Jon, to steer clear of the lannister woman, and her brother,' his father said sternly. 'They're dangerous people.'

'It's the king that worries me, father,' Jon retorted, wondering if his father had blinded himself to Robert Baratheon's madness like so many others seemed to. 'Jaime Lannister has done more for me than any other, half the dreams I thought would never be true can now be because of him.'

'Which is exactly what worries me,' his father told him bluntly. 'You remember the Blackfyre Rebellions?' he asked.

'A targaryen war of succession,' Jon said. That was all he remembered really, Bran and Sansa had had more interest in those stories than he had by then.

 _Stories about knights and lords are bitter fare for a bastard,_ Jon thought.

'A blackfyre who enough lords thought would make a better king tried to displace his true born sibling from the throne,' his father expanded bleakly. 'The heirs to some those lords are still sellswords across the Narrow Sea, and Ser Barristan killed the last of the blackfyre pretenders himself. I'm sure Tywin Lannister would like to see nothing more than a repeat of that story in the North.'

'I would _never,'_ Jon all but hissed.

'I know, Jon,' his father assured him. 'But they don't, and so they hope they can use you. Why else would they do all this for you?'

Jon knew the smart move would be to say silent, and he was sure he'd shut his mouth. Which was why it was so surprising when he heard himself speak. 'Perhaps Ser Jaime is reminded of his former brothers.'

His father's face was very very grave, but Jon refused to flinch away from him.

'We will not speak of this,' he said bleakly. 'And you will not speak of it again either. There's no reason to needlessly tarnish the name of kind and much loved woman.'

Jon took a sharp breath. _Tarnish._ His stomach was twisted into knots, and his mouth tasted of something terribly bitter, but neither were half so hard to ignore as the heat pickling about his eyes.

'If I might be excused, my lord?' he asked stiffly.

Lord Stark closed his eyes for a long moment. 'You may go,' he replied, picking his quill back up.

Jon turned his back on him, and swept out past Wyl and Heward towards the Red Keep. Ghost came silently after him, padding along behind him as stormed angrily through the middle bailey and into the lower. Ser Barristan was occasionally near the White Sword Tower at this time, and Jon very much wanted to find a man he could swing a sword at without fearing he would hurt him.

He found Joffrey's dog instead.

The man and his horribly burnt half face was watching Prince Tommen swing a sword at some other boy Jon didn't recognise, but assumed was a lannister by his hair. Neither boy knew what they were doing, their hands were in the wrong places, and so were their feet, but the Hound wasn't saying anything, and Joffrey wouldn't have done either if he'd actually been present.

 _Where is the prince if Clegane is here?_ Jon wondered. Sandor Clegane usually followed the spoilt brat like his shadow.

'Boy,' Jon only realised the scarred man was addressing him when he actually raised an arm and pointed at him. 'You're the bastard who wants to be a knight, aren't you?'

'No, ser,' Jon told him coolly, as he passed. 'I'm the bastard who's going to be a knight.'

Sandor Clegane laughed nastily, and stepped to block his path. Up close his ruin of a face was more terrible than Jon had realised. He could see every moment of pain where the flesh had melted, burnt, charred and scarred. The red, wet, raw slickness that gleamed in the cracks when his jaw stretched. 'I'm no ser, boy.' His breath stunk of wine and garlic. 'You think your dog is going to help make you a ser, do you?'

'Ghost is a direwolf,' Jon told him shortly.

'He might help then,' the Hound said. 'Not with being the sort of knight you're after. A bastard won't ever be a knight like that-' he jabbed a derisive thumb at the White Sword Tower '-but if you kill well they'll make you a knight for it. You can play at valour like all the rest then.' He looked down at Jon, measuring something in his face. 'You've not killed a man have you, boy.'

' _Not yet_ ,' Jon told him, temper fraying.

The Hound laughed down at him. 'You'd do better to start with someone your own size. That pair are your sort of age. I killed a man when I was their age.'

Jon glanced at where Prince Tommen and the other blond boy were flailing at each other. 'I wouldn't need a blade for them,' he said, abandoning what courtesy suggested he say.

 _Why shouldn't I say it,_ he thought. _It's true enough. I've beaten everyone my age, and most who weren't._

'I've seen you playing at being a knight with the old man I knocked off his fancy horse year back,' Sandor Clegane said derisively. 'You're good with a tourney blade, you swing it about all pretty and fine. Looks very _chivalrous_. Not the same when you're trying to kill the man; that's messier, but the victory is sweeter, see.'

'I'd probably need one of those tourney blades for you,' Jon said, pushing the man out of his way.

The Hound growled and caught his arm, throwing him round onto the floor. Jon rolled away immediately, his hand flashing to the hilt of Winter Queen, but Clegane was on the floor too.

The Hound was struggling with Ghost's jaws, as the usually quiet wolf did its utmost to rip out the man's throat.

'Ghost,' Jon called softly, before the man managed to recover. The wolf growled very low at the Hound, red eyes burning, then bounded away to Jon, who patted him gently on the head.

'There are no songs about men that fight with wolves, boy,' the Hound said, pushing himself up to his feet, and adjusting the scratched gorget on his neck. 'There's nothing honourable about standing there and watching your pet rip a man apart.'

'You would know, _champion,'_ Jon retorted, enjoying the way the Hound's neck flushed crimson.

'I got the prize,' the Hound said finally. 'Fuck what the little flower knight says. I didn't draw my sword against Gregor for him.'

'Did it for a song, did you?' Jon jibed.

The Hound laughed, and brushed the dirt off himself. 'You're a bit of a cunt when you're angry, boy,' he said.

'At least I have the excuse of anger,' Jon replied tartly.

Sandor Clegane snorted. 'Your old knight isn't here,' he said. 'He went with the king's hunting party.'

 _Damn,_ Jon thought, flexing his fingers restlessly. He was half tempted to search out Ser Jaime and see if the man still wanted to test his blade, but the memory of his dream, and their less amicable parting cooled his eagerness for that.

'If you want to vent at someone, boy, I'll show you how a real man fights,' the Hound offered. 'Better than watching them, pair of useless cunts couldn't kill a chicken with a warhammer. That lannister boy's got less man in him than his mother does, even Joffrey could do better.'

'Where's your master?' Jon asked.

'Fuck knows,' the Hound replied. 'Said he didn't need me, and swaggered off like the little cunt he is. Left me here watching those two.'

'I'll take your offer then,' Jon said, going for the tourney sword Tommen had abandoned.

 _If his face is anything to judge by I could cut off a few bits and he'd still live._

'Don't bother with that, boy,' the scarred man rasped. 'I don't play with toys anymore, haven't since I was a boy.'

'Fine,' Jon said, tossing the blunt sword away and drawing Winter Queen.

'That's a pretty sword,' the Hound said. His own was a well kept, well forged piece of steel, but there was nothing on it but the maker's mark, and Clegane's hand. 'What's a bastard doing with a weapon like that.'

'It's a bastard sword,' Jon told him, holding it up so the man could see the length of the hilt.

'Stupid reason.' Clegane spat onto the bailey floor. 'If I hack you to pieces, and your father comes for my head I'll kill him too.'

'No you won't,' Jon said. Eddard Stark wasn't as skilled as his older brother had been, but there weren't many that would confidently step to face him alone and Jon didn't count the Hound among them. ' Lord Stark won't come for you anyway.'

'Good,' Sandor Clegane said, and then he was upon Jon in a snarling whirlwind.

His blows made Jon's arm tremble, even when he put two hands on the blade. _Gods he's strong,_ Jon realised, slipping out from under the blade before the Hound could force him back. In front of the Mountain he'd seemed so small, but now he seemed very bit as big as his brother.

'Not feeling so knightly anymore?' the Hound taunted, as Jon raised Winter Queen more cautiously.

Jon slashed at the burnt side of his face in response, but the Hound's blade batted it away. Jon tried again, on the other side, but with no more success.

 _Faster,_ he urged himself, and focused on the edge of his blade.

The Hound checked two blows, side-stepped a third, then fell back, and Jon pressed on. The fourth blow slipped inside the Hound's guard when Jon twisted his wrist at the last moment, and left along thin scratch down Clegane's breastplate.

'Fancy swordwork,' the Hound grunted, lashing out viciously.

 _Focus,_ Jon told himself, but it was Ser Barristan's gruff voice he heard in his head again.

The next slash Sandor Clegane made was strong, sure, and came at Jon's side. He knew parrying would force him back the moment the Hound started to move his shoulders to strike, so he stepped in close to shorten the blow, and wrapped his blade around Clegane's in a slither of steel that ripped the blade form the Hound's hands.

'More fancy stuff,' the Hound said, as Jon raised his sword level at his chest. 'You'd beat me in a tourney, boy.' His hand closed on the edge of the Winter Queen, and wrenched it from Jon's grasp. The other hand came around and hammered in Jon's ribs, then he was flung roughly onto his back. 'But in a fight-' he tossed Winter Queen down beside Jon '-you'd be fucked.'

Jon rolled over and grabbed his blade, grimacing at the metallic taste in his mouth. When he spat it came out crimson.

 _Gods that hurt._

'You're going to have a bloody great bruise,' Sandor Clegane told him, as Jon slowly got up, holding his ribs. 'Don't think I broke anything though.'

Tommen and the other boy were watching, horrified, as Jon stretched gingerly and slid Winter Queen back into its sheath.

'You'd have died before grabbing my blade in a real fight,' Jon said, nursing his ribs with one hand while he scowled at Clegane.

'You'd have hesitated,' the Hound said, sheathing his sword. 'You've never killed anyone, boy, you'd have hesitated, and I'd've crushed your fucking skull under my foot.' He spat again, and rubbed a finger down the scratch on his plate. 'Some poor cunt is going to have to spend an hour sanding this out,' he said. 'That sword's valyrian steel, or I'm a mummer's boy.'

'It is,' Jon confirmed, still a little proud.

'Easier to kill people with, I'd imagine,' Clegane rasped. 'Never used one myself. You've got all the fancy stuff down, boy. All the footwork, all the wrist movements, and some little tricks too, some old master swordsman trained you well up north. You should have pushed that blade right through my neck, though, not waved it about like a boy who's got his cock hard for the first time.'

'Next time I will,' Jon promised him darkly.

'Then next time you won't end up rolling around on the floor,' the Hound told him. 'If you remember it, you might even end up a knight, instead of corpse.'

'Are you ok?' Prince Tommen asked sweetly.

'Nothing broken, your grace,' Jon replied politely.

'Bet it fucking hurts though,' Clegane said. His smirk was a horrible thing, and Prince Tommen visibly flinched away from it. Where the corner of his mouth uplifted ran deep, red cracks that seeped clear fluid out to run like tears off the Hound's jaw.

'Don't fuck around with fire, boy,' Clegane said, smearing it away with his arm before it dripped.

'I won't,' Prince Tommen squeaked, though Jon was sure he'd been talking to him. The Hound laughed, and Prince Tommen edged away before retreating with his friend up to the keep.

'What's a prince doing out here with a tourney sword and just you?' Jon asked the Hound curiously.

'Joffrey,' Clegane said, and shrugged.

'He's such a little shit,' Jon said. 'He's going to be a terrible king.'

'King's a king,' Sandor Clegane said. 'Just have to do what he says. If he asks me to kill someone, I'll kill them. Never cared who or why before.'

'Because you're a shit too,' Jon told him bluntly.

The Hound laughed, and spat. 'The world is shit,' he said hoarsely. 'Joffrey's a cuntish boy, and he'll be a cuntish king, but the world won't be any worse than it already is.'

AN: Please read and review, thanks to everyone who does.

P.S. Fixed that the Dance of Dragons issue.


	13. Jon X

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

Another Jon chapter, there have been a few in a row now, but he is among my favourite characters. I suppose I will have to start to branch out so the realm is better covered by characters, but perhaps not quite yet!

Anyway. Enjoy...

 **Jon**

Lord Stark sat on the Iron Throne. He looked more a king upon the hulking, twisted monstrosity than Robert Baratheon ever had, though Jon had never seen the man actually upon the chair. The severe, firm line of Eddard Stark's jaw, and his cool, grey stare set him far apart from any who'd sat the chair before him as far as Jon knew.

 _And what a chair it is. Aegon the Conqueror's arrogance given form in distorted, melted iron._

Tell the Lord Hand what you told me,' the river lord was ordering at the front of the hall.

Jon watched from the gallery, while Heward and Wyl stood either side of the throne to guard Lord Stark.

'A glimpse into a very different world,' a soft voice murmured behind him.

Jon flushed, and stiffened. 'Your grace.' He bowed hurriedly. The Queen was dressed all in gold and black, with emeralds at her ears and throat, her beauty enough to steal Jon's breath from him in just a glance.

'Come, Jon Snow,' Cersei Lannister said gently. 'If you can call my brother friend, you can call me one too.'

'I have never presumed to claim Ser Jaime as a friend, your grace,' Jon replied. 'He is a knight of the kingsguard, and the son of a lord of the realm.'

'Are you not?' the queen asked him lightly.

'My cloak is grey, your grace,' Jon replied dryly.

Cersei Lannister laughed softly. 'My brother would be pleased if you called him a friend, bastard son of Eddard Stark or not.'

'He honours me, your grace.' Jon glanced back to the hall, where the smallfolk were recanting the horrors some bandit had inflicted upon the Riverlands.

'He does,' the queen said. 'The friendship of lions is not lightly given, or earned.' She looked past him down at Lord Stark, her face composed, but her lips thin. 'Their enmity is not lightly earned either.'

'What did you mean a glimpse into a different world, your grace?' Jon asked, hoping not to be dragged into whatever quarrel Lord Stark had with the queen and her family.

'Ah,' Cersei said softly, taking a slow, deep breath. Jon had to drag his eyes from the obvious swell of her breasts to her eyes, trying his utmost not to flush. 'My brother did not tell you of how your father came to King's Landing then.'

'No, your grace,' Jon replied curiously.

'When your father came south he was at the head of the host intended to take the city, but he found my father and Jaime had done his work for him. My brother was waiting for him upon the Iron Throne when Lord Stark rode in. Your father ushered him off it.' Cersei Lannister favoured him with a gentle, warm smile. 'If your father had sat upon the chair he sits upon now, I'd have married Robert Baratheon, but Lady Stark would be queen.'

'Then I am most grateful that Lord Stark didn't,' Jon said wryly. The queen sent him a sharp, searching look, then glanced away, a small smile on her lips.

'She was unkind to you, I presume,' Cersei Lannister said. 'I suppose I would not treat any of my husband's other children too warmly if he had raised them here before my face, but-' she she shifted her skirts slightly, moving a little closer to Jon so that the dark material of her dress brushed against Jon's legs '-my humiliation would be Robert's fault, not his child's.'

 _Would that Lady Stark had made that distinction,_ Jon thought sourly.

'She was not cruel,' Jon said. He'd not give Lady Stark the knowledge that she'd hurt him, nor shame his family by sharing their troubles with the queen, no matter how understanding she might be.

'Of course she wasn't,' the queen agreed gently. 'Catelyn Stark is a model mother, even the short time I spent in Winterfell was enough to see how dearly she loved her children.' Her hand came to rest beside Jon's on the balustrade. 'A mother has a sense for such things.'

 _Her children, yes,_ Jon thought. _But not the bastard, never me._

'I suppose Lord Stark had best make the most of it,' Cersei Lannister said, her green eyes staring down at the man upon the throne, her expression unreadable. 'The king will return soon, today if not tomorrow; he's been away a day or so longer than usual already.'

'The king prefers to do this himself?' Jon dared to ask lightly.

The queen laughed softly, setting Jon's stomach to fluttering, and turned to face him. 'You seem less a Stark every time I speak with you,' she said kindly, and Jon tried not to smile that the beautiful woman thought of him as a Stark foremost, and a bastard last. 'You have the wit the gods stole from Lord Stark.'

Below them the hall broke out into uproar, and Jon caught the name Clegane being bandied by the lords and knights there, but not the Hound, not the rude, ugly, brutal man who'd left his ribs as red as Arbor wine and twice as sore; his brother.

 _The Mountain._

His father sent Lord Beric, Thoros the red man, and a handful more men besides. Edric Dayne would be gone with them, Jon knew. All the men he'd spoken to that Lord Stark didn't approve of were gone from King's Landing within the space of a few days, for Ser Jaime had accompanied the king.

 _Lord Beric, Ned and Thoros may not come back,_ Jon thought darkly.

The queen looked incensed too, though Jon did not think it was on his behalf. His father's inexplicable distrust and loathing of Lannisters was becoming more evident by the day. Jon half expected him to accuse them of the murder of his brother while sat there so grimly upon the Iron Throne.

The queen's eyes were full of green fire, and not for the first time Jon glimpsed the steel she shared with her twin; the strength she had that kept her from wilting at the king's thoughtlessness.

 _Lord Stark just outlawed her father's bannermen on the word of terrified smallfolk,_ Jon realised awkwardly _._

He contemplated edging away from her, but she was too close not to notice and be offended. Her skirts hung against his leg, close enough Jon could feel her leg on his when Cersei Lannister shifted her weight, her arm lay beside his, and her hair fell gracefully upon his shoulder.

'Lord Stark seems to believe my father sets his banners to raiding river hovels,' Cersei Lannister remarked, and Jon could hear the bared claws of the lioness he knew her to be in her tone.

'My apologies, your grace,' Jon said uncomfortably. 'The loss of my half-brother has affected him deeply.'

The queen caught his chin in her fingers, turning to look at him from only a few inches away. Jon could smell sweet wine and mint upon her breath, and found himself wondering what her mouth would taste like.

 _All I'd have to do is lean forwards,_ he thought, eyes on the slim, ruby line of her lips.

'You're a good man, Jon Snow,' Cersei Lannister breathed, and her soft fingers lingered upon his cheek as she smiled farewell and left him in the gallery.

Jon pressed his fingers to where hers had brushed against the corner of his mouth, flushing violently, then realised the hall below was swiftly emptying, and hurried back towards the Tower of the Hand, half-hoping he'd stumble across the queen on the way.

He was still flushed when he reached the tower, but Cersei Lannister hadn't crossed his path again.

Heward shot him a wink as he gestured towards the door to his father's solar, and Jon scowled at him as fiercely as he could with his cheeks still Arbor red.

'Jon,' Lord Stark said, as he slipped into the solar from the large, tastefully decorated hall Lord Stark have never used as far as he knew.

'Lord Stark,' Jon replied, bowing respectfully. Something in those cool, grey eyes flickered as the man frowned.

'There may well be some tumult in the city soon,' Lord Stark warned him. 'It would be wise for you to keep as far away from it as possible if you can.'

'Of course, my lord,' Jon agreed. He wanted no part in the squabble between Starks and Lannisters.

 _I am no Stark,_ Jon reminded himself.

'Thank you, Jon,' Lord Stark said heavily. Clearly he'd been expecting some argument. 'I've written home, and Robb has replied, but there's been no word of my lady wife, not beyond a single line penned by Robb telling me she is beside herself with grief, and that Rickon doesn't understand where Bran is.'

 _Poor Rickon,_ Jon thought. _The boy is barely more than a baby, and now his brother is gone._

'Thank you, my lord,' he said politely, wondering what then the rest of the letter had been. 'Has there been any word of Sansa, or my sister?' Jon asked.

'No,' Lord Stark answered. 'I told Jory to travel fast, so I doubt we will hear anything until they are beyond the Neck.' He frowned again, rubbing his brow with two fingers. 'I understand Ser Barristan has been teaching you in place of the king?'

'His grace doesn't like to cross blade with me,' Jon replied.

Lord Stark's eyes slipped to the covered hilt of Winter Queen. 'No,' he said slowly. 'I'd imagine not. Ser Barristan is a great knight, Jon, better than any other in King's Landing. You're lucky.'

'I know, my lord.' Jon knew all too well; he was very grateful for Barristan Selmy's aid, even he couldn't understand why the man tried so hard to teach a boy he was so obviously indifferent to.

'Did the king ask him to train you?' Lord Stark asked.

'He offered,' Jon said. 'The king didn't object. Ser Jaime told him of my dream for the future.'

'So the Kingslayer is telling men of dreams your father doesn't even know,' Lord Stark said. He sighed heavily. 'I have warned you before, Jon, of what may come of associating with the Lannisters.'

'Yes, my lord,' Jon said, his temper flaring hotly despite himself. 'But I thought it best I not further _tarnish_ the Stark name with my association, my lord, and the Kingslayer is so clearly dishonourable he won't suffer any worse for my company.'

'Jon,' Lord Stark remonstrated sharply. 'You're my son, and I will do everything I can for your future.'

'So long as my future keeps me trapped at Winterfell, my lord, yes,' Jon said, clenching his jaw hard to reign in his anger. 'You'll have to forgive me for having more ambition than desiring to spend the rest of my days enduring the disdain of the entirety of the North.'

'You are my son,' Lord Stark told him, more firmly. 'Your place is in the North.'

Jon said nothing. _I wish I was not your son,_ he thought bitterly. _The bastard of any other lord might at least be free to leave._

'My lord?' It was Wyl who opened the door. 'Ser Barristan Selmy?'

Lord Stark frowned. 'Send him in,' he said, gesturing that Jon should leave.

'My lord hand,' the old knight greeted, he caught Jon's progress towards the door, and set one milk white steel armoured arm across it. 'Jon should hear this too,' he suggested.

Lord Stark's grey eyes were cool. 'Jon is my son, Ser, I will decide what is safest for him.'

Barristan Selmy looked between him and Lord Stark, his expression concealed beneath his helm. 'As you say, my lord hand. I have news of the king, grave news.'

Lord Stark nodded. 'You may stay, Jon.' He turned back to Ser Barristan. 'Ser?'

'The king was injured hunting, badly injured, my lord.' The old knight's tone was grim. 'It is mortal.'

Lord Stark closed his eyes, and sighed deeply. 'How?'

'A boar, my lord hand,' the knight said. 'Its tusks tore his gut.'

'Does he wish to see me?' Lord Stark asked quietly.

'Yes, my lord.' Ser Barristan removed his helm, and Jon was not surprised to see the deep frown that crumpled his white brows so deep his eyes nearly disappeared. 'However, he asked to see Jon first.'

 _Great,_ Jon thought. _A dying, mad king. He unnerved me enough before, when he had reason to hide._

'You'd best go, Jon,' Lord Stark said solemnly. 'Ser Barristan, I can trust you to look out for Jon.'

'With my life, my lord hand,' the old knight said, and for the first time Jon could remember he was smiling, albeit ever so faintly. Lord Stark on the other hand was still frowning after them from his solar when they left the hall, Ghost trailing eagerly at their heels.

'He's in his chambers, Jon,' Ser Barristan told him. 'The wound is grievous, I warn you.'

'Was he really killed by a boar, ser?' Jon asked. He had difficulty believing it. The king he'd seen in the courtyard of Winterfell could've been gutted by a boar and Jon wouldn't have blinked, but not the darker, bitter cunning man who hid within. Jon couldn't see him dying so simply at all.

'His grace had drunk much, you know how fond he is of strong drink, and he missed his thrust.' Barristan Selmy replaced his helm upon his head. 'The boar opened him from hip to hip, but the king slew it after regardless.'

 _Of course he did,_ Jon thought sourly.

Ser Jaime stood outside the chambers of the king, his face a careful mask. 'A moment, ser?' Jon asked quietly. The old knight nodded, and stepped inside, shutting the door after him.

'Jon Snow,' Jaime Lannister said through his helm. 'Thought on my words, have you?'

'I owe you an apology, Ser Jaime,' Jon said, swallowing his pride. 'I should not have spoken to you so.'

'You owe me nothing, Jon Snow,' Ser Jaime said. 'It is as you said. I killed the king I swore to die for, and even if I did the deed to keep the vows I took as a knight, I broke my other oath all the same.'

'Lord Stark is no better,' Jon told him.

'None of us are,' Ser Jaime said thinly. 'There are only those fortunate enough to avoid being placed in such a position. I hope, Jon, that you are one of them, and that when you are granted your white cloak as I know you will be, you are sworn to better kings than I have been.'

 _Small chance of that,_ Jon thought. _Joffrey will be king now, and Sansa queen._ He thought of his little sister at the ruby ford, and smiled faintly. _The kingdom will be ruined._

'In you go, Jon Snow,' Jaime Lannister told him, opening the door. He watched disinterestedly as Ghost followed him in. 'The wolf too, I suppose.'

Jon crossed into the chambers uncertainly, walking slowly towards the bedchamber Ser Barristan stood guard outside of. 'Your grace?' he called awkwardly, ensuring Ghost stayed out by the door.

'Get in here, boy,' the king called, sounding only a little worse than he did come morning, when Jon would have to rouse him from his wine-fuelled stupor.

'Your grace,' Jon said, bowing at the foot of his bed.

'Enough with that nonsense,' the king ordered him impatiently. 'I shan't be king much longer, boy.'

'Yes, your grace,' Jon agreed. The king growled at him. 'Sorry.'

'Ned does the same damn thing until he gets angry,' the king told him. 'And even then it takes some anger to melt Ned's frozen face.' He swallowed, grimaced, and then scratched at his scraggly black beard as if to hide the flinch. 'Are all Starks left in the snow as babes to freeze them so?'

'I wouldn't know,' Jon replied stiffly.

'All this time in King's Landing, all your good fortune, and you're still the same sullen brat who stumbled across a fat, sad old man in Winterfell's crypt.' The king snorted. 'A pig has killed me, Jon Snow. What do you say to that?'

'At least it wasn't a small pig,' Jon said dryly.

'Ha.' Robert Baratheon started to laugh, then grimaced. 'Gods that hurts,' he said. 'Come closer, boy, it hurts to speak loudly when your stomach is hanging out.'

Jon reluctantly edged alongside the bed, but the king reached out one large arm, and dragged him close. 'Kneel, boy,' he said roughly. 'Save me from looking up at you, won't you.'

'Of course, your grace.'

'Not once more,' Robert Baratheon warned him dangerously. 'I hated being king. The day I put on that crown, I lost everything I really ever cared about.'

Jon shifted awkwardly.

'Don't be coy, boy,' the king said, pulling his arm back into the bed. He caught the wine flagon on the table, spinning it about across the table to break, and spattering Jon's face red from temple to chin. Robert Baratheon didn't seem to notice. 'You know what I'm talking about, the whole damn realm does. No need to tiptoe around me now, even a squire like you could best me like this. I doubt I could even lift my hammer.' The King snorted, and turned his head to look at him more clearly. 'Go on, say her name, boy, I can hear it in your thoughts.'

Jon swallowed, his mouth very dry. The bright red wine upon his face was warm, and uncomfortably sticky. 'Lyanna,' he tried to say, but it came out a faint whisper.

Robert Baratheon went very still, staring at him intently. 'Say it again,' he ordered quietly, and Jon had never seen the glint in his eye so dark as it was now. The hairs all down his spine rippled.

'Lyanna,' he said calmly, refusing to show any of his fear. The name came out strong and clear, and he was proud of himself for that.

'No, boy, say it like you said it before,' the king said shortly. 'Whisper it like our places were exchanged, and I were watching you die instead.'

'Lyanna,' Jon whispered, as faintly as he had the first time.

The king stared at him for long a moment, then he threw back his head and laughed, but he laughed so bitterly Jon had to fight the urge to step away from him for every second until he stopped. 'The gods have made me a jape, so help me,' the king said darkly. 'I thought I'd won, you know. I dream of the moment I killed him every night, but I lost, I lost Jon _Snow,_ he died, and I was crowned, but he won, _damn him.'_

Jon had no doubt of who _he_ was.

'Kneel, squire,' the king ordered him. 'Ser Barristan,' he yelled, then grimaced, and pressed a hand to his gut.

Jon shifted so he was kneeling properly, and the old knight marched dutifully in. 'Your grace?'

The king waved the question away. 'Give me that damn sword,' Robert Baratheon ordered Jon. 'I can stomach it one more time.'

Jon drew Winter Queen, and passed it tentatively across to the king. He held it by the blade, weighing its perfect balance on the edge of his hand, then sighed deeply, and ripped the cloth from its hilt. Robert Baratheon closed his eyes for a long moment, then stared at the hilt with such terrible longing Jon half wanted to snatch it back for fear he'd not have it returned to him.

'You're a knight, Jon Snow,' the king said, tapping him on the head with blade. 'Ser Barristan, you saw.'

'I did, your grace, though it was not the most elaborate ceremony.' The old knight had his eyes on the ruby at the pommel of Jon's sword, and his ever present frown was audible in his voice, even through his helm.

'Fuck you, Selmy,' Robert Baratheon said. 'A knight's a knight.'

'There are knights, and there are _knights,_ your grace,' Ser Barristan replied. 'Jon Snow will be one of the latter, he deserved a finer moment.'

'Well you've had your moment, Ser Jon,' the king said thickly. 'How do you feel, any different?'

'No,' Jon said, but it was a lie. His blood felt like it was aflame, for he was a _knight,_ and now he never had to go back North if he didn't want to.

'Of course not,' the king said, snorting. 'Now, Ser Barristan, there are a decent number of gold dragons in the drawer behind you, they're Jon Snow's now.' The king tried to drag himself higher up the bed, but groaned softly, and clutched his stomach. 'This is yours too,' he said, returning the Winter Queen, but when Jon put on hand upon the blade the king didn't release his grip. 'It suits you, boy,' Robert Baratheon muttered, and the king tugged him down so he was close enough to whisper to. ' _Winter Queen,_ Jon Snow,' he murmured roughly, and let go of the sword. 'But that name is our secret, understand, by all the old gods you Starks hold so dear.' Jon nodded stiffly.

 _I'm no Stark,_ he wanted to say, but he dared not.

'Don't strain the wound, your grace,' Ser Barristan advised, as he turned back around to see the bandage about the king's stomach stained afresh.

'I'll be dead soon,' Robert Baratheon said dismissively. 'And better for it too.' He took a deep breath, waiting as the old knight passed the pouch of coin to Jon; it felt like no less than twenty gold dragons, but he wasn't sure what the king intended he do with it. 'Now, take Ser Jon to my armoury, find him a suit of armour he likes, then put him on a ship to the Free Cities.' He looked up at Jon, and the dark gleam that had so often lurked there was gone; strong, calm blue eyes looked clearly at him, and he seemed more at ease on his deathbed than Jon had ever seen him. 'You're banished from Westeros, Ser Jon Snow.'

'Your grace?' Ser Barristan asked, very very carefully. Jon was too in shock to respond.

 _Banished, but I broke no laws, did nothing wrong._ Hot, red, bitter heat welled up within him as he stared at the king, he half wanted to take the treacherous man's head off with the sword he so loathed.

'I'm doing you a favour, boy,' the king told him, as he stood there, hateful and dazed. 'My wife is as heartless and cold as she is beautiful. You shouldn't be entangled up down here in King's Landing anymore, and I know you don't want to go back north either.' Ser Barristan nodded slowly, and Jon could only struggle helplessly with the second wave of betrayal he felt at the knight's agreement. He refused to shed any tears in front of them, though, and forced his face to stillness. 'This is your way out, Ser Jon Snow,' Robert Baratheon said quietly. 'Now get out of here, I still need to speak to Ned before the pig finally gets its revenge on me.'

Barristan Selmy drew him gently from the room. 'It's for the best, ser,' he told Jon softly. 'The Free Cities aren't so terrible, you may find a new life there. I've quite wanted to go to Pentos of late, so perhaps we'll meet again, and I will try to tell Lord Stark where you have gone next I see him. He will understand, I promise you.'

'I wanted a white cloak,' Jon said distantly.

'You'd do better to wait until you find a king or queen worthy of your oath,' Ser Barristan told him wisely. 'Now come, Ser Jon, Aerys' armoury is this way.'

 _Is Cersei Lannister not worthy?_ he wondered. Lord Stark had warned him, but he'd not seen the sense of it. Now Robert Baratheon had too, and Ser Barristan had not disagreed either. _What does it matter,_ he decided eventually. _I will not even get the chance to say goodbye to Arya. My dream is dead._

Ghost pushed his nose gently into Jon's thigh, whining softly, and so with a bitter smile he let Ser Barristan lead him away.

AN: Please read, and review, thanks to everyone who does! As you have all no doubt noticed, the divergence is well truly underway now!


	14. Tyrion IV

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

I'm going to say this before the new season starts out of fear that more of my ideas turn out to really be GRRM's ideas as well; I'm not changing any of the plot from the original anymore, from start to finish it will remain as it is now planned - even if the Winds of Winter turns out to look identical! - and the foreshadowing of the ending in earlier chapters than this one is proof for those who need it!

This one's not Jon, and a touch shorter too since there's all that much to it.

 **Tyrion**

'This is warm, Yoren,' Tyrion said, as they crossed into the great city through the Iron Gate.

'Too warm, m'lord,' Black Yoren said, mopping his brow. 'Men spend too long in the summer forget what winter is.'

'Lucky men,' Tyrion quipped.

'Fools, m'lord,' the black brother disagreed. 'Winter is always coming, and men who forget it find themselves lost in the snow.'

 _The Starks are always right in the end,_ Tyrion thought.

'So long as it's not coming right now,' he replied. 'My father longs for a snow drift I might be lost in, it wouldn't even have to be a large one.'

Black Yoren grinned at him, baring chipped, yellowed teeth. 'Tywin Lannister should have better sense,' he said. 'Gold won't hold back the cold winds rising in the North, Casterly Rock will be as quiet as Castamere if the Wall falls.'

'Snarks cannot be bribed,' Tyrion agreed. 'I eagerly await the day my people come to rescue me from among you all.'

 _But Casterly Rock will never fall._

'My men and I are billeted just down that street,' Yoren said, jabbing a greasy finger down a refuse strewn alley. 'I daresay you'll want to find rooms in the Red Keep.'

'I have missed my brother and sister dearly,' Tyrion said, directing his mare up the street past Rhaenys hill towards the Red Keep.

 _I want a bath, some decent wine, and food that isn't salted._

Somehow he found himself in the throne room instead, tired, smelling more like horse than man, and listening to his little shit of a nephew speak on and on about how great a king he was going to be; it made him miss almost Robert Baratheon, and even Cersei seemed a little annoyed after the first few minutes. Tommen and Myrcella had started ignoring him almost from the moment he began to speak.

'Sweet sister,' he greeted politely, one eye on his nephew, who was garbed in gaudy gold and crimson, with rearing lions and prancing stags all across his cloak. She was garbed in sea green, with myrish lace for a a bodice, and emeralds on her fingers and brow.

'Tyrion,' Cersei said, and he knew his sibling well enough to know she was on the verge of some success.

 _Always she pretends as if nothing had happened, but her eagerness still shows._ Today she looked as regal as ever, but the small smile at her lips implied the lioness had devoured the canary.

Tyrion waddled a little further along, to where Jaime stood beside the throne in his white cloak beside all his brothers but Ser Barristan. 'You look noble,' he jibed. 'I don't suppose you're planning on putting your sword into the back of this king?'

Joffrey was too busy to hear, waving his shiny Lion's Tooth around on the Iron Throne, much to his younger sister's dismay.

Jaime sighed. 'Tyrion my dear brother, has anyone told you that you talk too much.'

'Father,' Tyrion said, grinning wolfishly. 'He tells me so every time I see him.'

'How was the Wall?' Jaime asked, as the members of the small council filtered into the throne room.

'High, and cold,' Tyrion replied. 'Short of men, and full of rumours too.'

'Wildlings?' Jaime asked.

'Others, dead men walking, grumpkins, snarks, and likely dragons too,' Tyrion quipped. 'A few more men would not go amiss, though, the garrison is threadbare, and there are a hundred thousand willings beyond the Wall.'

'Perhaps we should have let Lord Stark send Ser Gregor,' his brother said lightly.

'Speaking of our lord hand, how has his son fared here in King's Landing?' Tyrion asked. He'd not seen a single grey-cloaked man in the Red Keep so far.

'I made him squire to the king,' Jaime said, smiling slyly. 'We were thick as thieves for a little while.'

'Really, Jaime, what would our father say.' Tyrion flashed his brother a grin.

'Alas, our father is busy scheming, too preoccupied to turn his attention upon his wayward children.'

They both fell silent when Lord Stark strode in with Ser Barristan at his side. He had his two grey-cloaked guards either side of him, and a host of gold cloaks on his heels.

Joffrey sheathed his blade, and settled himself awkwardly among the blades and spikes of his seat. 'I command the council to make all the preparations needed for my coronation,' he said. 'I wish to be crowned within a fortnight, and today I will accept the oaths of fealty of my councillors.'

Lord Stark gazed up at the throne with pensive, grey eyes, and Tyrion glimpsed a cool hostility he'd not witnessed since he'd left Winterfell.

 _This is not going to go to plan,_ he realised. _Lord Stark believes we are responsible for his son's death too._

'Take this to the lady of Lannister,' he ordered Ser Barristan.

The knight of the kingsguard held a sheet of paper in one gauntleted fist, and Tyrion could clearly see Robert Baratheon's seal hanging from it.

Cersei scanned it briefly. 'Paper makes a poor shield, Lord Stark,' she said derisively, and tore it in half, and then in half again.

The pieces floated gently onto the floor of the hall.

 _There's our peace,_ Tyrion thought.

'Those were the king's words,' Ser Barristan said, shocked.

'Your king is before you, ser,' his sister replied. 'Lord Stark, I offer you the same advice you once gave me, go home with your children.'

Lord Stark's grey eyes froze hard. 'I am bereft of two,' he said grimly. 'And I shall not go home until I see justice for them, nor until I've seen Robert's heir crowned.'

'Mother?' Joffrey asked, confused as most the room. Tyrion made a careful count of the faces who showed no surprise.

'You hold no claim to the throne you sit upon, Joffrey Waters,' Eddard Stark said solemnly. 'Lord Stannis is the heir.'

' _Lies!'_ Joffrey screamed, flushing as red as Robert Baratheon did.

'Traitor,' Cersei accused. 'Seize him.'

It was the Hound who stepped forwards when every other man hesitated. The brutish man looked oddly thoughtful, and unafraid, even when Ice, the greatsword of the Starks, slid from Lord Stark's back with a steely slither.

Sandor Clegane swayed on his feet, and struck at Eddard Stark's gut. His blade was parried off the top of the greatsword's edge, then Stark changed his grip, taking the blade in his hands in a flash, and driving the tip of Ice through Clegane's throat before the man could so much as twitch.

'Stupid,' Jaime said quietly. 'To challenge the man who killed the Sword of the Morning, even if he had help.'

' _Damn,'_ the Hound gurgled, choking as Lord Stark withdrew his blade. 'The surly little cunt was right.'

Joffrey's sworn shield was dead before he hit the floor, and the blood from his neck spread across the floor like wine.

' _Kill him,'_ Joffrey screamed, red with rage. ' _Your king commands it!'_

Littlefinger smirked, sidling closer to Eddard Stark.

 _If he dies, the North rebels,_ Tyrion knew. _And with them will rise the Riverlands, the Vale, and likely Dorne too._ None of the houses had any love for his, and with Stark declaring for Stannis that would likely leave them facing the Stormlands too.

 _Not even Casterly Rock can take on so many of the other kingdoms, and nobody else here seems to see it._

He cleared his throat loudly. 'There seems to have been some misunderstanding,' Tyrion said lightly. 'Perhaps my sweet sister, and his grace are unaware, but Lord Stark's son was murdered just after the royal party moved south.'

'That doesn't justify treason,' Cersei said venomously.

'Treason, sister?' Tyrion feigned confusion. 'I'm sure Lord Stark is simply overcome by the stress of his son's death, and ruling in place of his grace, King Robert, could not have been easy either.'

There were a few soft chuckles, and some of the tension left the room.

'He said Stannis should be king, and he killed my dog!' Joffrey cried. 'Be quiet, uncle, and let my command be carried out. _I want his head on a spike!'_

The gold cloaks at last came to life, sweeping around Lord Stark and his two men to level their spears at the three northmen. Tyrion shivered at the stare Eddard Stark levelled at Littlefinger, but the man simply smiled.

'Brandon was too kind to you,' Lord Stark said icily.

'I visited the Wall when I was up north, my lords,' Tyrion interceded, making his last gambit. 'They're begging for men, fighting against a hundred thousand wildlings, I'm told, and here are three men who'd relish the chance to defend their homelands from such a threat.'

'What do you say, Lord Stark?' Cersei asked softly. 'Will you take the black?'

Lord Stark looked about him, then at his men. 'Aye,' he said disgustedly. 'I'll take the black, but I want justice for Bran, and for Jon too.'

For the first time since Lord Stark had entered the throne room his sister looked surprised. 'The king will be more than happy to provide you with justice, Lord Stark,' she said, placing one hand over Joffrey's before the brat could say anything stupid. 'It is his duty, and his pride.'

'I'm sure, my lady,' Lord Stark said, but he replaced Ice upon his back.

'Will someone please take the Hound's body away,' Tyrion said into the silence that followed. 'He's not a floor ornament.'

Lord Stark allowed the gold cloaks to lead him out, while Ser Barristan stood there and frowned so severely Tyrion thought his teeth might wear away to nothing.

'Well done, brother,' Jaime said softly. Behind him, Cersei glanced up from where she was whispering to Joffrey to nod stiffly at him.

'What happened to Jon Snow?' Tyrion asked.

 _The boy better not be dead,_ he thought. _I'm the reason he managed to come south._

'I have not seen him since he left his grace's chambers before he died,' Jaime said quietly.

'I last spoke with him the morning before,' his sister added, sweeping over to join them.

'You, sweet sister?' Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

Cersei stared impassively down at him. 'He was pleasant company,' she said simply. 'I will set the gold cloaks to searching for him until he is found safe and sound.'

'I would speak to Lord Stark,' Tyrion said.

'Then do so,' his sister said. 'Try to convince him it would be best to take the black, and write to his heir to ensure he comes to swear fealty.'

'I'll come too,' Jaime offered.

'The king needs you to protect him,' Cersei asserted. 'Lord Stark is not the only traitor, I'm sure. Renly has fled the capital, and Stannis and Eddard Stark exchanged several letters.'

'Stannis Baratheon will not send assassins,' Tyrion said, chortling at the very idea. Jaime smiled thinly, but when Tyrion waddled away towards the Tower of the Hand where he was likely being held for the moment his brother remained behind briefly before striding after him.

Jaime had no trouble catching him up before he'd left the throne room.

'I hope Lord Stark's words don't spread too far,' Tyrion said slyly. 'Rumours like that can cause such trouble, though I must wonder what he has learnt to make him come to such an interesting idea.'

Jaime gave him a long, dry look. 'This is one of those times where I wonder if you're actually on our side, brother.'

'You hurt me, dear Jaime,' Tyrion replied, placing his hand over his heart. 'You know you're my favourite brother.'

'Cersei means what she said, you know,' Jaime told him.

 _Changing the subject, brother,_ Tyrion thought.

'About what?' Tyrion asked, indulging him.

'About Jon,' Jaime answered.

'Really?' Tyrion's reply dripped sarcasm. 'Has our sweet sister suddenly taken a fancy to sullen, pretty northmen?'

'There's less of the North in Jon Snow than you might expect of Eddard Stark's son,' Jaime replied drily. 'He was quite taken with our sister, too.'

'More fool him,' Tyrion said.

 _I led the boy into the lion's den,_ he thought bitterly, as they entered the Tower of the Hand.

'I don't think Cersei wishes him any harm,' Jaime said. 'She seemed almost fond of him, and I know she intended to give him a white cloak at one point.'

 _Truly?_ Tyrion wondered. _Or was he just another boy awed by his beautiful queen into spilling all sorts of secrets._

Lord Stark and his men were within the tower, still armed, but watched over by a dozen gold cloaks.

'Lord Stark,' Tyrion greeted, hopping up into the nearest chair. 'I was wondering if you had heard anything of your son?'

'If I had I would not tell you, my lord,' Eddard Stark replied stiffly.

'A shame,' Tyrion said lightly. 'I'd grown fond of the boy, as has Jaime.'

 _Damn, his eyes are cold._

'You'll forgive me if I don't trust the lives of my children to Lannisters,' Lord Stark said coolly. 'Recent times have proved it to be unwise to trust the honour of House Lannister where children are concerned.'

Jaime's bright smile was one Tyrion knew often led to trouble. 'We've betrayed the same number of kings now, Lord Stark,' his brother said sharply. 'I'm sure you're wishing right now you were as successful as I was.'

'The king named me Lord Protector to his heir, not executioner of pretenders. I would have had your son grow up safe with his mother in exile, and nobody else needed to know they were lions rather than stags,' Lord Stark said, his grey eyes measuring Tyrion's response. Something flickered through them when Tyrion didn't react. 'They are your children, aren't they, Kingslayer?'

'Guilty as charged,' Jaime said, shrugging, glancing at Tyrion, who grinned wolfishly back at him. 'Cersei and I were made for one another.'

'You suit each other well,' Lord Stark said.

Tyrion chuckled. 'You've taken to the south better than I expected, my lord,' he said. 'I thought clever insults beyond the reach of you northmen.'

'You'll find there is little beyond the reach of northmen,' Lord Stark said icily. 'We will have our justice, on way or another. I doubt Joffrey Waters will sit any more comfortably upon the Iron Throne than I would've done. Your sister has at least spared me from Robert's vengeance.'

 _We'd best give Lord Stark something,_ Tyrion thought, pondering what exactly Eddard Stark might have done to earn a throne he would have hated from a man who'd always loathed it.

He pushed himself out of his chair. 'If Jon Snow is found I will make sure you're informed,' he said.

They made their way out into the bailey in silence.

'How long have you known?' Jaime asked eventually, before they returned to the keep, where little birds likely lingered in the corners.

'Oh years and years, brother,' Tyrion replied slyly. 'I doubt I'm the only one, either. Lords Varys and Baelish looked remarkably unsurprised by Lord Stark's declaration.'

'They said nothing.' Jaime sounded uncertain.

'Yet,' Tyrion told his brother pointedly. 'They've said nothing _yet.'_

'Neither had you, I suppose,' his brother said, the he smiled thinly, and shrugged. 'I don't think I really care.'

'Our father will,' Tyrion said slyly. 'I wonder which of us will be a greater shame now, dear brother?'

Jaime laughed. 'Our father is too busy for now, and he'll likely only get busier. For all Stark's foolish honesty he has allies aplenty, and we lions are not so popular as they once were. Still, Lord Stark outlawed Ser Gregor, no small insult, and a Lannister always pays his debts.'

'Especially the insults,' Tyrion quipped. 'Father likes to make sure that debt is settled swiftly.'

 _And speaking of debts._

'You don't happen to know anything about a valyrian steel dagger with a dragonbone hilt, do you?' Tyrion asked lightly.

'Robert gave one to the youngest Stark girl at the Ruby Ford,' Jaime said disgustedly. 'A waste of such a fine blade.'

'One?' Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

'There were two, but when I looked one had vanished,' his brother explained. 'Did you want a dagger for yourself, Tyrion?'

'The other dagger turned up in Brandon Stark's chest, courtesy of a paid footpad,' Tyrion said darkly. 'The Starks are blaming us, and if it vanished before you reached King's Landing it's hard to disagree, for Robert would not have done such a thing.'

'Joffrey would,' Jaime said simply. 'He might have called it mercy, or mistaken it for kindness, our sister is not the best teacher of either I'm afraid.' His brother frowned, then started back towards the keep. 'If they are blaming us, there may well be war. Lord Stark has no love and little fear for us, and his son will be braver still.'

'A problem to be sure,' Tyrion agreed. 'I will let our father deal with it, and continue to drink here in King's Landing where everything is safe, and warm.'

Jaime smiled, and shook his head at him. 'I should get back to protecting his grace,' his brother decided after a few moments. 'But if Jon Snow is found, it might be best he heads elsewhere for a little while.'

'I quite agree, brother,' Tyrion said, pleased. 'Let's hope he is found by reasonable men.'

 _But where is safe?_ he wondered. _And what is father doing that keeps him so busy we've not seen so much as a letter from him?_

Tyrion waddled towards the rooms in the keep he intended to make his. Lord Stark was no fool. Honourable, and not so sly as many southron lords, but no fool.

 _The North is likely already prepared,_ Tyrion realised, as he made his way up Maegor's Keep. _I will have to write to father to tell him how thing's stand._ His father would agree with him, he thought, and would put a leash back on Ser Gregor before it was too late.

He knew already it was a losing battle he was fighting, for Joffrey was likely to do more than enough to push Robb Stark into calling his banners, but it was worth trying.

 _If Jon Snow is found, and returned home, Lord Stark, and his men sent back north to the wall, then we may yet have peace._

The small council would have to be convinced. Baelish and Varys could probably be persuaded, he thought, but the others might take some sterner words.

 _Heads. Spikes. Walls,_ Tyrion thought wryly. _Father will approve._

AN: Please read and review, thanks to everyone who does.


	15. Theon I

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

So not everyone's convinced Tywin Lannister has a good reason for raiding the Riverlands - I'm glad we all agree and haven't jumped straight into the 'he's a Lannister and therefore clearly a power grabbing dick' camp!

And I'm going to miss Sandor, he's a great character - the first one I've regretted killing in any of my fics since Katie Bell (and though there are only two stories I do tend to leave red footsteps).

Anyway, here's someone new. Reek, it rhymes with tweak...

 **Theon**

The hall of Winterfell was grim and quiet. Robb sat on the seat his father had always sat in the past. Lady Stark sat stiff and pale just behind him for the first time since Bran had died, taking her meals there in silence until today.

 _When she actually ate,_ Theon thought.

Rickon, the baby of the Stark family, stood quietly beside him, between he and Robb, and past the throne of the Kings of Winter stood Arya and Sansa, still in their riding clothes from the journey north.

'A raven, my lord,' Maester Luwin said, his face solemn, and sad.

'What does it say?' Robb asked quietly, prying baby Rickon's fingers from his sleeve.

'Your lord father has been accused of treason,' the maester said, and Theon could hear his own disbelief echoed in the maester's tone.

 _Eddard Stark isn't capable of treason._ The Lord of Winterfell had been quiet, reserved, solemn and even aloof at times when he chastised Theon for his visits to the less honourable establishments of the town, but he'd not been a traitor. _The Wall will melt before Eddard Stark betrays his word._

'He and his two guards have opted to take the black,' Maester Luwin continued seriously, 'and you are urged to ride south to swear your fealty to the new King Joffrey.'

'Kneel to Joffrey,' Robb said bitterly. 'I'd sooner marry Theon.'

'And you'd be as grateful as any girl in this castle for such a fine match,' Theon told him lightly. Robb shot him half a smile, and Theon counted that a success. 'He is the king now, Robb,' he added, more soberly. 'If you don't kneel, there'll be war.'

'What about Jon?' Arya demanded, wriggling past Sansa to snatch the letter from Maester Luwin. Her mother's face paled angrily, and her lips thinned, but she said nothing as Arya scanned the letter.

'There's no mention of him,' Arya cried, turning the paper over in her hands.

Robb's frown grew deeper and darker; the smile Theon had managed to rouse vanished like a northern summer. 'Two of my brothers,' he said grimly. 'They murder two of my brothers, and expect me to bend the knee.'

'Perhaps Jon escaped north,' Theon suggested kindly, but he knew better. He and Lady Stark were the only ones who truly understood he reckoned, them, and maybe Robb, if he'd inherited some of his mother's mind as well as his father's honour.

 _The Lannisters have him if he's alive,_ Theon thought darkly. _They'll keep him quietly in Casterly Rock in case they need a Stark one day, just as I am kept here._ He doubted Tywin Lannister would be so kind as Lord Stark, though. _Snow will find no brothers and sisters in the West._

He didn't envy Jon. The sullen bastard had had the same easy life as Theon had had, but it had come with the same stigma too. He was an outsider, the beloved Warden of the North's living shame, just as Theon had been a captured kraken, imprisoned here to hold his father to his word. Neither of them were really wanted in Winterfell.

 _But both Lord and Lady Stark treated me well,_ Theon thought. _They made me feel welcome for the most part._

'Mother?' Robb asked quietly. 'What do I do?'

 _Don't ask her,_ Theon thought warily. Lady Stark had not been the same since her Bran's death. She'd been half mad with grief for weeks, and even now her eyes were ablaze with its bright, bitter anger.

But she spoke before he could think of anything to say, and he was forced to bite his tongue.

'The Lannisters killed your brother,' Lady Stark said, with cold fury. 'Your father once told me _the North remembers_ , if you kneel to Joffrey, you betray your brother's memory.'

'We need to find Jon!' Arya burst out, slamming the letter down upon the table so hard and loud that Theon flinched.

' _He_ isn't important,' Lady Stark said bitterly. 'The North is, the Riverlands are, _your brother is,_ Robb, do what is right!'

'Jon was my brother too, mother,' Robb said firmly, and there was enough steel in his voice that Lady Stark recoiled a little. He took a deep breath. 'You are right though, mother. If they have father and both his men, they would have Jon too, if he was still alive.'

'No!' Arya screamed, knocking everything within reach off the table with one clean, furious sweep onto Sansa's feet. Rickon whimpered, looking between his sisters with wide eyes. 'He's alive. _He's_ _alive!_ _He promised me!'_

'Arya,' Sansa began, surprisingly gently for the eldest Stark girl who'd had something pretty ruined by her sister again.

' _Shut up, Sansa!'_ Arya yelled. 'You're glad he's gone, I know you are! You probably hope your stupid flower knight killed him!' She was fighting back tears, her fingers clenched in white fists, and a trickled blood running down her chin from where she she'd bitten through her lip trying to keep it all at bay.

'Arya,' Lady Stark said stiffly. 'Your sister is trying to be kind.'

'It doesn't matter when she's _lying_ ,' Arya retorted, then she turned and ran out the hall before he tears could betray her. Nymeria bounded after her with a low snarl, snapping at Lady, who had curled docilely between her and the door.

'Maester Luwin,' Robb said, his voice shaky, but determined.

 _Be the lord, Robb,_ Theon wanted to tell him. _Command, and they will follow. I will follow._

'Yes, my lord,' the old maester said.

'Send a raven to every house of the North,' Robb ordered. 'I'm calling our banners, we're marching south.'

Lady Stark smiled, and put a reassuring hand upon Robb's shoulder. 'We'll get justice for Bran,' she promised her son fervently.

'If Lord Stark is taking the black, he will have to come north,' Theon began carefully. 'It might be best to act as if you will kneel while you wait until he is far enough north to be safe, and then call your banners.'

Lady Stark turned her gaze on Theon, some of the fire of her grief dimming in her blue eyes. 'Thank you, Theon,' she said almost softly.

'It's a lie, and it's dishonourable, but Greyjoy is right,' Robb said. 'My father must reach safety before I do anything, and if one lie saves a life then it's worth the stain.'

'I'll send the ravens, my lord,' Maester Luwin said, and bowed. His chain rattled as he did so, glinting bright enough to catch the corner of Theon's eye as the maester left the room.

'I'll find Arya,' Theon offered, knowing full well that Robb had enough on his plate now, and that Arya would never listen to either Sansa or Lady Stark.

 _She'll not listen to me either,_ he thought. _I was never all that kind to Jon._

He'd not been cruel either, but Jon had always been an easy target for jokes, and Arya had not always understood that he and Jon sort of understood they were the same, so it was ok for him to jest when it was not for others.

He made his way towards the godswood first, that was where Jon usually went when he'd had enough of Lady Stark's cold eyes on him, and Arya had adopted the habit as she grew older. If she wasn't in the godswood she'd be in the crypts.

Theon quite hoped she was in the woods. The weirwood was unsettling, but Theon had grown used to it for the most part. The crypts of Winterfell were deep, quiet, and full of the ghosts of Starks long dead if you listened to Old Nan.

 _There are no ghosts in Winterfell,_ Theon thought. _Not since Jon went south._

He picked his way through the trees towards the heart tree, and its steaming hot pools, as uneasy as he always was in the quiet, bleak place. Eight thousand years of Starks had trod the ground beneath the bloody leaves, and he never felt more an outsider than when he walked in their footsteps.

Arya was curled up into a ball beneath the long, solemn red face carved into the wood, her arms around her knees. She was crying.

 _Gods spare me,_ Theon thought. Crying girls had never been his forté. _Girls at all,_ he thought wryly. He'd never had the same way with them as others seemed to, though not for lack of trying on his part. He understood whores, and lowborn women too for the most part, but not girls, and not ladies, and certainly not Arya, who seemed determined to be neither, and yet was both.

'Arya,' he called, so she knew he was coming, and wasn't startled.

 _And so the wolf doesn't eat me,_ he thought. He had no blade at his side, and his favoured bow was far away, not that he thought either would be of much use amidst the trees.

She untucked her head to glare at him with reddened eyes.

 _Stark eyes. Bran's eyes. Jon's eyes._

'What do you want, Greyjoy?' she demanded sullenly. 'I'm not in the mood for you.'

'To make sure you're ok,' he told her, though it tasted half a lie.

'What do you care?' Arya said miserably. 'They took Jon away, even though he promised he'd be safe; _it's not fair!_ '

'No,' Theon agreed. 'It's not.' He searched around for something to say, but could only remember standing in front of his own father on Pyke all that time ago as he was told he was going away, but to never forget he was ironborn, and a Greyjoy beyond that. The man had not so much as given him a hug before he had him escorted to the ship, and Theon had never forgot the bitter fire in his breast as Pyke faded into the mist and spray behind him.

'Go away, Theon,' Arya told him, and Nymeria prowled around the weirwood to growl at him.

He bravely held his ground. 'I was taken away from my father when I was not much older than Rickon,' he told her, having nothing else he could say. 'I thought your father was going to put me in a dungeon all my life, but he raised me among his own children instead.'

'Good for you,' Arya said bitterly. 'How's that going to bring Jon back?'

'It won't,' Theon told her simply. 'Jon's not coming back, Arya, and I'm never going to go home until my father's dead. That's how it is.'

'Then it's wrong,' Arya said stubbornly, angrily dashing what remained of her tears away. 'I'm going to find whomever hurt Jon,' she decided hotly. 'I'll find them, and then I'll kill them, and I'll kill all the Lannisters too, and Joffrey, and - and _all of them_.'

Theon said nothing, he felt no such fire within him. _The wolfsblood,_ he thought, remembering what Lord Stark had said about his youngest daughter. He didn't doubt her words at all in that moment, and not just because Nymeria had gone quiet and still beside him, her eyes fixed upon her mistress.

'I swear,' Aray declared, and a valyrian steel dagger was suddenly in her hand.

 _Where the hell did she get that?_ Theon thought, stepping forwards and trying to think of some way to easily disarm her without cutting either of them.

'I swear by the old gods, or any gods that will listen; I'll find them, and then I'll kill them with this dagger,' Arya spat. She drew the blade across her palm before Theon could stop her, and the dagger sliced deep, so deep the red ran all along her forearm. She gasped at the pain of it, sudden tears sprang into her eyes, but she didn't flinch, and she didn't make any other sound as the blood ran along her arm.

 _Gods she's just a girl,_ Theon thought, as Robb's skinny little sister stood there, her arm red from palm to elbow.

'You need to see Maester Luwin,' Theon told her sternly, grabbing her arm and pulling it up over her head to lessen the flow.

' _I swear,'_ Arya said, tugging her slippery arm free to leave him with empty red palms, and scattering her blood over the crimson face upon the weirwood.

'Come on,' Theon said, taking a firmer grip on her arm, frowning when she resisted. 'You won't be avenging anyone if you cripple yourself, or the wound goes foul because you didn't see the maester.'

Arya stopped struggling at that, for which he breathed a sigh of relief, and let him lead her back towards Maester Luwin's chambers, Nymeria at their heels. The weirwood watched them leave, and Theon thought for a moment he saw Eddard Stark's likeness in the face cut into the tree.

AN: Please read and review, thanks to everyone who does!


	16. Jon XI

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

Ok, so good news and bad news. The bad news is I've been really busy, and haven't managed much writing. The good news is... new chapter!

 **Chapter 15 - Jon**

New Ghis was a little place, so small that when they'd rounded the headland Jon had simply shook his head at the captain, and passed the man what was left of Robert Baratheon's gold to take him to the next city they were chartered to.

As night fell in a wash of unfamiliar birdsong, smells, and sights, he didn't keep the Pentoshi sailors company as they indulged themselves at the seafront. Instead he stood at the deck in the simple dark leathers he'd worn beneath his mail in Kings Landing, and ignored the captain who watched him carefully from the window of his cabin.

 _Another of the fat trader's men_ , Jon suspected, pointedly inspecting the winged back of _the_ _Sea Nymph's_ figurehead.

He'd been too eager to leave Pentos to look beneath the surface of Illyrio Mopatis' recommendation like he now knew he should have done, but the man had done nothing more than watch him as of yet.

 _No doubt he's passing everything I do back to Pentos all the same._

Jon sighed, and idly tossed a small stone off the side of the ship into the harbour where it sank with a small splash, disturbing the brightly coloured fish that flitted curiously about the vessel's stern. Ghost's ears twitched at the noise, but he didn't raise his head, preferring to nap in the heat. The direwolf had not enjoyed Pentos, the smells and the sounds had set him on edge all the while, and Jon had eventually just barricaded him in his cabin for the last two days.

 _A mistake_ , he reminded himself. _I should have taken Ghost to the Red Temple._ He smiled faintly. _I should not have gone at all._

He'd been curious from the moment he'd first heard of it, for Thoros of Myr's words still hung over him, a dark cloud above whatever horizon he made towards. Jon'd sought some means to put them aside in the temple, anything to prove they were as false as he believed, even in these hot lands so far from the heart trees. Instead he'd found Aqytho, a tall, thick-set man in clean, crisp crimson robes, and fervent fire in his eyes.

Jon had evaded him for all of half an hour before he'd found himself cornered between braziers and pillar.

 _A prince of winter_ , _far from home, blinded by his own desire,_ Jon recalled him saying, stirring restlessly. Ghost poked his head up and whined softly, and he ruffled the wolf's ears gently. _It's all just words,_ he reminded himself. _I've seen neither blood nor fire yet either, and only a fool mistakes a bastard for a prince._

He tossed the last rock into the water, and watched the small stream of bubbles rise. 'What is it Theon said about the ironborn's drowned god,' he wondered aloud. 'What is dead may never die?'

Ghost rolled over to expose his belly to the dusk sky, lolling his tongue out in the still heat, but making sure to catch Jon's hand on the way round.

'Thank you, Ghost,' Jon said wryly, wiping it upon his letter over-shirt.

'You do not mean to go ashore?' Jon flinched at the sudden speech - he'd not heard the man approach at all - but Ghost didn't move, so he relaxed. The direwolf had a good sense of those who meant him harm, half a dozen pickpockets in Pentos had learnt that lesson the hard way, and one or two would have the scars to prove it in a week or so.

'No,' he answered shortly, glancing at the outline of what had been pointed out to him as the city's own red temple. 'There's nothing of interest in the city for me.'

 _It's what's in the city that is interested in me that I fear,_ he thought drily.

'Most of the cities of Slaver's Bay are like this, only larger, and with pyramids,' the captain warned, in heavily accented Westerosi. 'If you'd rather, I could speak to the captain of _the Gale Rider_ , he's a friend, and would take you back to Pentos for the same you'd have paid me to take you on.'

Jon studied him carefully, from the bald, tanned head that sat upon his bright blonde forked beard, to the worn toes of the boots that protruded from beneath his gut. He didn't look dangerous, but like many of the rotund magister's capain's he'd once been a sword of Bravos, even if the lightness of his step was all the remained to prove it.

'Did Illyrio Mopatis tell you to try and get me back to Pentos?' he asked softly.

The captain squirmed a little, then shrugged. 'I'm a trader and seafarer, not a magister,' he said eventually. 'Magister Illyrio is a friend and patron, but yes, he thought it unwise for you to go so far east from your friends.'

'And he has only my best interests to heart,' Jon remarked dryly.

'He's a kind man,' the captain rebuffed stiffly.

'I'm sure,' Jon replied briskly, unconvinced. He'd spoken to the man in Pentos, after the red priest had led him to that ridiculously opulent manse, and the impression he'd received was sly, not kind, and slick to boot.

 _A winter prince,_ Illyrio Mopatis had mused, stroking his beard. _Well, he certainly looks the part._ And no amount of argument on Jon's behalf had been able to convince either of them of the truth.

'Sometimes you must go east to find you way back west,' a deep, smooth voice interceded.

 _Only if you're very lost_ , Jon thought irritatedly. He'd hoped Aqytho had gone ashore to his temple, but as usual the priest lingered only a soft call away away from him.

 _Does he hope I'll change my mind and go back to Pentos too?_ Jon wondered.

The captain was no more comfortable in the presence of the red priest than Jon was, and swiftly abandoned him in favour of his cabin when the red-robed man came to join them at the rail.

 _Coward_ , Jon cursed him, but he refused to flee. _He's just a man._

The red priest smelt of sweet, hot ash, salt, and sweat, though he seemed at ease in the heat. His hair and eyes were dark as dragonglass where Jon could see them under the red cowl of the robe, but his skin was as pale as Winterfell's heart tree.

 _Qartheen._ Jon had learnt that much from the sailors who'd spared a moment to teach him a little bastard valyrian in return for answers about a land they'd never seen.

'I saw you in the flames-'

'Again?' Jon interrupted lightly. 'Do your fires show you only me, or has your red god an unhealthy fixation on anyone else?'

The red priest smiled. 'I see many things, Jon Snow, though not as many as I'd like. Dragons, masked and plain, of stone and of wood and of flesh, dancing, all of them, before dark skies and dark eyes. Kings and lords and men, all swept together in the flames, rising and falling like the tide beneath the red comet. The world is picture of strife below the light of R'hllor's sign, a canvas of crowns on which a man might lose himself, and I see you there at the tumult's heart, a man thrice-pierced, cutting desperately at shadows with a sword of fire.'

'There are no dragons,' Jon told him flatly. 'Lord - my father always told me staring into bright lights would send me blind, and that men who played with fire got burnt for their trouble.'

'A man without the Lord of Light in his heart may well be,' Aqytho agreed congenially. 'But there is power in fire, Jon Snow, and the world will have need of it.'

'Winter is coming,' Jon told him dryly. The Stark words felt heavy on his tongue, leaden, dead, without the pride a foolish boy had once taken in them.

'Winter indeed,' the priest said darkly.

 _But not here_ , Jon thought. _There is never winter here._

The red priest settled himself in the seat adjacent to him to watch the last sliver of the sun slip out of sight over the city. Jon watched with him, doing his utmost to pretend he and Ghost were alone.

'Does it not give you the slightest bit of unease, losing the light?' the red priest asked.

'I am not afraid of the dark,' Jon said, with a touch of contempt.

 _Does he think me a child?_

'Not _of_ it, no, Jon Snow, but what's within it, what it heralds.' The red priest waited for the fires of the temple to spring to life in the city before he spoke again. 'A man cannot tell friend from foe in the dark.'

'Perhaps he should have waited until day to do his fighting then,' Jon suggested innocently.

Aqytho murmured something in high valyrian as the sun set, and pulled a small candle from his robes. 'Men who don't fear the dark have not been to Asshai,' he told Jon quietly. 'A city of death and shadow, and those who leave it take its mark upon themselves, or spread it onto the world.'

'I'll cross Asshai off my sight-seeing tour,' Jon responded glibly.

The red priest laughed quietly, and shook his head at him. 'Humour will only keep you from understanding the truth for so long.'

 _Not if I can help it,_ Jon promised him. He'd read enough of the history of the Seven Kingdoms to know what happened to men who listened to words on flame and blood and dragons and shadow.

Aqytho lit the candle, still whispering in high valyrian, a language Jon was still learning, and learning a lot more slowly than the bastard dialect of the Free Cities. 'I first saw you coming to Pentos in the flames two years hence, and I've seen you over and over since; it was always the same vision, until today. You rode into shadow, and when you vanished, the darkness spread over the world.'

'I promise not to try and ride only in the sunlight,' Jon told him lightly, watching the candle flame flicker. He ruffled Ghost's ears, and shook his head at the man. 'There is no red god in my heart, Aqytho. I keep the old gods of my forefathers, and I shan't forsake them.'

'I know, Jon Snow,' the red priest said. The candlelight cast the shadow of his hood more deeply, obscuring his ebony skin, and coal dark eyes. 'I took this ship so you'd hear my words, but I know you will cling to old, dead gods for a while yet. Still, you are far from them their fading sight here, and eventually you will come to understand.'

'You're going to follow me to Slaver's Bay just for that?' Jon asked. He knew well enough how dear a cabin on a ship like this was.

'The Lord of Light showed me you,' Aqytho told him. 'He would not have done so for no reason. Illyrio bid me tell you that you are always welcome in his house, and that should you change your mind you should seek out a sellsword by the name of Griff.'

'Griff,' Jon repeated thoughtfully, as the candle flickered; it was scarcely more than a stub of red wax. 'This is the Westerosi sellsword he was so eager I find, then.'

'He travels with his small company, his son, their maester, and their septa.' Aqytho stared deeply into the candle for a long moment, then sighed. 'He bade me relate to you also that a little bird told him the septa was once the fairest star in Dorne, but that her joy dimmed when she misplaced her child.'

 _Misplaced? Does he mean miscarried_? Jon had heard the priest get the occasional word wrong in Westerosi before, though his knowledge of the common tongue was still better than Jon's valyrian, high or bastard.

'If I took a ship west, I would go to Whiteharbour, and Winterfell,' he told the priest.

'Why don't you?' Aqytho asked.

'I am banished,' Jon said sourly. 'I cannot return unless the king pardons me.'

 _And there's precious little chance of Joffrey doing that even before he marries Sansa_.

'It's a long way from Kings Landing to Winterfell, I thought.' The red priest frowned into the candle.

'See anything?' Jon asked lightly.

'I see the candle is about to go out,' Aqytho said, as the flame reached the molten wax and flickered wildly. 'If all that is dear to you is west, why go east.'

'Because I must,' Jon said simply, and the candle guttered out. 'If I went west I would betray my honour, and a knight can't do that.'

But he thought of Ser Jaime and the Mad King when he said it, and bit his tongue before he managed any more.

 _Not without good reason_ , he corrected eventually, but then he thought of Arya, Robb and his father, and the soft, low sickness swelled in his belly as it had every day since Ser Barristan had set him on a ship to Pentos and told him not to return until he was ready. _Is family not reason enough?_

He'd nearly got a ship straight to Whiteharbour on the first day in Pentos, and on several after too, for he'd felt just as out of place there as he had in Winterfell, but he'd never quite done it. The king's wrath would fall on his family for harbouring him, and with whatever strife there was between his family and the Lannisters he knew it would be wrong of him to return and risk it.

'Honour is a silver fork, Jon Snow,' the red priest told him, delicately placing a new stick of red wax into the bronze candle butt. 'A man who has one grows attached and accustomed to using it, but only a fool starves rather than eat with his hands.'

'Dishonour does not save lives,' Jon replied swiftly, watching as the Qartheen man lit the wick with an ease that could only be born from practice. 'It costs them. It was dishonourable for the Mad Targaryen king to burn my grandfather and uncle alive, but honourable for my father to argue against the murder of a young girl.'

'It was dishonourable for your father to have you,' Aqytho responded softly. 'Yet he did, yet you are, and how important you might yet be.'

'I'm a sellsword,' Jon told him dryly, tired of riddles, and roundabout speech. 'Not even that, for I've not even got so far as to selling it.'

The red-robed priest gave him a look that was almost pitying. 'You're no sellsword, Jon Snow, that blade was meant for great deeds and great legacy, not cheap scuffles in the streets of Essos.'

'Alas for it,' Jon replied glibly. 'I fear it will see no such momentous moments as those you wish for it.'

'It will see fire and blood,' Aqytho said. 'I have seen it.'

Jon scowled into the sea. _Always with the blood and the fire,_ he thought sourly. _Do these red men know nothing else._

'It's a sword,' he replied sullenly. 'If it saw no blood, it would be wasted in my hands.'

The red priest smiled knowingly, and snuffed out the candle with his finger and thumb. 'As you say, Jon Snow, but I think you will heed the call of the Lord of Light when you find yourself beset by shadows. Perhaps that is why he showed me you, so I would be there to hold them back.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about,' Jon said wryly. He raised a hand when Aqytho opened his lips, an eager glint in his eyes. 'And I don't want to, either.'

'As you wish, Jon Snow, as you wish.'

And something in the way he said it made Jon feel small. The dark pressed thick and heavy in about him for the first time he could recall, and the words Aqytho had spoken at the temple slipped onto his tongue.

 _Blinded by his own desire,_ he thought, and for a moment the words of the red god seemed to hold a touch of truth to them, then Aqytho rose to his feet, and the instant passed.

 _He has said a hundred such things to me now,_ Jon reminded himself. _He promised the next time I made land my fate would find me, but here I am in New Ghis, none the better off._

'Are there red priests in Slaver's Bay?' Jon asked him, before he left.

'Here and there,' Aqytho replied simply, tucking his candle away within his robe, and clambering awkwardly onto the quay. 'Maybe we will meet them, maybe we will not, R'hllor will guide us, Jon Snow, and so long as we listen we need have no fear.'

AN: Please read and review, thanks to everyone who does!


	17. Jon XII

Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

So this week I've managed to write three chapters, unfortunately only one of them is a part of A Canvas of Crowns, but better one than none right! Jon is off on his little excursion in Essos, and I promise that it won't involve him acting as Dany's living shadow with Jorah for those like me who've read that one once too many times already.

Anyway, enjoy...

 **Chapter 16 - Jon**

'You're out of gold, my friend,' the captain told him as Jon looked out onto the last and greatest of the cities of Slaver's Bay.

'Mereen,' Jon said, staring out at the row of pyramids beyond the walls. One of them towered over the city, a monstrous mountain of a monument, and seat to a vast bronze harpy that watched over the city.

'The Dothraki sea lies on the other side of the river to the city,' Aqytho told him. 'That-' he pointed at the golden domed building across from the great pyramid '-is the Temple of the Graces.'

'Another red temple?' Jon asked, making a mental note not to get within a hundred metres of it.

Aqytho chuckled. 'No. You'll be relieved to learn there is no temple of R'hllor in Mereen.'

Jon nodded, and stepped off the boat onto the pier. 'I like this place,' he decided wryly. Ghost shook himself, then leapt down onto the quayside next to Jon, sniffing the air cautiously.

The red priest calmly followed, the few things he owned in the bag over his shoulder, and Jon suppressed a sigh at the knowledge that he truly did seem resolved to follow Jon wherever he went.

 _At least we have a truce._

For the last days of the journey Aqytho had done his best to make less mention of his Lord of Light, and in return Jon had not thrown him overboard like he'd become sorely tempted to from the first few hours after leaving New Ghis. Instead the red priest had taught him valyrian, both high and not, some history of Essos, and whatever else he'd thought Jon should know.

The captain waved them goodbye as they were encouraged off the dock by the harbour guards.

 _Back off to Pentos,_ Jon suspected. _Illyrio will be disappointed I have not sought out his sellsword, and his Dornish septa._

'Where now, Jon Snow?' Aqytho asked, as they reached where the edge of the city.

'Aren't you supposed to already know?' Jon countered dryly.

'I saw a woman with the wings of a bat, and the tail of a scorpion,' Aqytho said softly. 'She cradled a whip, and carried shackles in her claws.'

'The emblem of Yunkai,' Jon noted, he'd learnt something of the city on the journey here. 'Yet this seems to be Mereen.'

Aqytho was unruffled. 'Sometimes to go west-'

'You must go east, I remember, but I thought you didn't want to go to Asshai,' Jon cut in. 'And if you keep going east, that's where you end up.'

'A man can err when he stares into the flames,' Aqytho admitted.

'Have you?' Jon asked, genuinely curious this time.

 _If he has erred, then surely Thoros could have easily done so._

Aqytho paused, and spared him a small smile. 'No.'

Jon frowned, then smiled and put Thoros' words on blood and fire as far from his mind as was able. 'I wanted to see Yunkai anyway,' he shrugged.

'Sellswords follow their contracts,' Aqytho reminded him. 'There's little time for sightseeing.'

'I'll have to save up for a bit before,' Jon conceded, crooking a finger at Ghost. 'Now, I'm going to go investigate. I assume you're going to follow me.'

'The Lord of Light showed me you,' Aqytho said.

'I'll take that as a yes,' Jon replied dryly, setting off into the city.

Ghost and Aqytho trailed after him through crowds that for the most part were more than eager to be out of his way.

'Do you have anywhere specific in mind, Jon Snow?' Aqytho asked, as he hurried after Jon.

'No,' Jon answered. 'And will you please just call be my name.'

'There are fighting pits, pleasure houses, and more, Jon,' Aqytho said, though he seemed to stumble over the informal version of Jon's name. 'It depends what you want.'

'I'm not all that keen on either fighting pits or pleasure houses,' Jon said, trying not to flush, and failing spectacularly.

'What do you want, then?' Aqytho inquired smoothly.

 _To go home,_ Jon thought. _To go home, and have it proud for me to be there._

'I don't know,' he said, ignoring the desire he still held for that lost dream of a white cloak, the honour it would bring him, and the dishonour of his birth it would wash away.

'Sellswords, if you're still of the mind to set your blade to inglorious work for silver and gold, are easily found,' Aqytho promised him. 'We will have to go towards the pleasure houses though, Jon.'

'Fine,' Jon said, annoyed that the man had read his discomfort so easily.

'This way, I think,' Aqytho said, leading Jon down a set of smaller streets. Ghost loped calmly after him.

 _Traitor,_ Jon thought sourly as the direwolf trailed at the red god's man's heels, but followed the priest all the same.

Aqytho was quiet as he led them through the streets. He seemed to roughly know the way, thought Jon felt there was perhaps a little more wiggling back and forth than necessary.

'The Spice Market,' he finally said, pointing down the street towards an open square. Ghost whined, and tucked his muzzle into Jon's thigh, proof enough that Aqytho knew where he was.

'I thought we were going towards the pleasure houses,' Jon remarked, far from disappointed that they hadn't. Theon he was not.

'The Second Sons seem to have some men over there,' he pointed to a shabby looking wine parlour at the other end of the street to the market, past a winesink with a purple flower upon its sign, and a handful of colourful men drinking on tables at the edge of the gutter.

 _I am my father's second son,_ Jon thought, and he smiled a little at that irony, his mind made up.

Aqytho waited, then strode after him as he made his way past the winesink.

'Hey,' one of the men called, in bastard valyrian. 'Hey, boy.'

Jon ignored him until he stood up, and shoved his chair over into Jon's path. He was tall, as tall as Jon was, blue-eyed and blue-haired, in weathered leather and bright silks.

'I was talking to you, boy,' he said, quaffing the last of his wine and tossing the cup aside.

'So?' Jon asked starting to step round him, but the man stuck out an arm to block his path.

'That sword,' he said. 'I want it, a boy like you shouldn't have such a thing wasted on him.'

'Jokin,' a man called softly, his gold teeth glinting as he spoke, 'don't be a fool, the boy needs his weapon, every sellsword does.'

The man turned to the blue-haired speaker, and grunted. 'You can have my arakh,' he conceded to Jon. 'A trade, from one mercenary to another.'

'A poor trade,' Jon said, his bastard valyrian good enough for that, and Ghost slunk round his legs to bare his teeth at the man, red eyes glowing. Aqytho kept his distance, unconcerned.

 _No doubt he thinks his red god will save me if he needs me._

'I'll just take it then,' Jokin said, brushing his long blue hair out of his eyes, and drawing the arakh he'd offered.

Winter Queen slid smoothly from its sheath into Jon's hand, his fingers tight about the face of the laughing tree. 'You can have it,' Jon promised, as the arakh snaked out at his hip.

Jon checked the stroke, and stepped inside to thrust his fists at the sellswords face, but the man swayed aside and struck again.

Winter Queen caught the strike between them, and Jon stepped back, parrying a second blow, then a third. The cobbles were slick with spilled drink, and he nearly slipped, but caught himself on the table behind him in time to duck the vicious stroke of the curved blade that would have taken his head.

Jon's counter drew a line of torn leather and red all down the man's side, and the sellsword flinched back, pushing the table in between them and swearing in half a dozen different dialects.

'That's going to scar,' he grunted. The other sellswords cheered, and Jon glimpsed silver exchanging hands amongst them as he kicked the table aside.

Jokin stepped right, then lunged left, but Jon read the strike from his eyes, and reversed the grip on his blade to catch the arakh between his blade and his hip, then twisted away, wrenching the blade from the sellsword's hands.

It clattered across the street next to the wine cup as the sell sword hurled himself onto the cobbles to avoid the strike he thought was coming. Jon spared Jokin a thin satisfied smile as he sheathed Winter Queen, leaving his opponent on his knees on the street.

The other sellswords roared with laughter, and Jokin's face reddened as he pushed himself back to his feet, his hands on his shins.

'Jon!' Aqytho warned.

He spun in time to see the thin stiletto slide from Jokin's boot as he threw himself forward.

There wasn't enough time to draw Winter Queen before the sellsword hit him, but he managed to get an arm between the two of them, and the stiletto tip failed to penetrate his mail. Jokin swore, and smashed his forehead into Jon's sending him reeling back, his vision full of bursting stars.

Something white darted past him with a low growl, and the sellsword screamed.

Jon's vision cleared just in time to see Ghost rip the man's hamstring out with his teeth, dancing back to try and avoid the wild slash of the stiletto that followed, but not evading it completely. A thin red line welled up upon Ghost's muzzle, and the direwolf whimpered, backing away.

 _You should have pushed that blade right through my neck,_ he remembered the Hound saying, and he cursed himself for not listening.

Jokin retrieved his arakh from the cobbles, but Jon was already upon him before he could attack. His desperate parry stopped the first stroke, but he was too hampered by his injured leg to turn as fast as Jon circled him, and with a simple twist of Jon's wrists he opened the man's throat to the bone.

Jokin took one more step towards him, then sank onto the street like summer snow, his eyes as wide and still as glass.

'A good fight,' the gold-toothed man declared, gathering silver from his fellow sellswords with a wide smile.

Jon warily watched him rise as he cleaned the last inch of Winter Queen, but he didn't sheath the blade. Jokin had been confident, but he'd not carried himself so easily as this man, his swagger had been more of a sway, and the arakh that lay on the street was a pewter knife compared to the pair of gold-hilted blades at this man's waist.

'You have a name and a company?' the man asked. 'If you're a Second Son, lie, the Titan's Bastard is prick.'

'Jon Snow,' Jon replied. 'And the only company I have is Ghost… and Aqytho,' he added, after a moment's thought.

The man ran his fingers through the three prongs of his blue beard, and into his gold-painted mustachios. 'Why not join us?' He offered. 'We seem to have a space to fill-' there was muted grumbling behind him, but it cut off when the sell sword turned his clear blue eyes upon them '-you'd make a good crow, Jon Snow.'

'I was thinking of joining the Second Sons,' Jon admitted wryly.

'A good thing Jokin intercepted you before you made that mistake,' the sellsword jested. 'You've proved you have some skill, skill enough to take Jokin's place as my second in the Stormcrows, and none of these sorry sots will be able to take it from you so long as you watch your back.'

'And who are you?' Jon asked, as Aqytho drifted close in behind him.

'I'm Daario, Daario Naharis,' the man replied, half-bowing elegantly with a hand inside his bright silks, and the other on the hilt of his arakh. The blade had a naked woman for a hilt, the same as his stiletto, and Jon thought it looked wrought of solid gold. 'There's no finer sword you'll find in all of Essos,' Daario told him, though Jon wasn't sure if he meant his blade, or himself.

Jon glanced at Aqytho, who shrugged, a motion Jon took to mean he'd follow after him and be annoying regardless of what he chose. 'Ok,' Jon agreed. 'A Stormcrow I shall be.'

 _At least I have found something to pay for food and drink,_ he thought. _A sellsword I may be for now, but one day I'll find my way home_ _with honour enough to be welcome there._

Daario grabbed his arm and pulled him down into the seat across from him, keeping one eye on Ghost who curled up at Jon's feet. 'What is a red priest doing trailing a sellsword?' he asked curiously.

Aqytho didn't reply for a moment as he right the fallen table and settled himself at it. 'The Lord of Light shows me where to go,' he said eventually.

'Well if you're not going to take up a sword for us, we're not going to pay you,' the sellsword captain said bluntly.

'I am not following Jon Snow for gold, Daario Naharis,' Aqytho replied.

'Your red god,' Daario said. 'Well, him I understand, and the wolf too, though I've not seen one so large before, but what about you, Jon, are you here for gold, for glory, or something else? If you'd die, what would you die for?'

'Honour,' Jon replied straight away.

The sellswords close enough to hear laughed, and Jon flushed. 'In my experience, Jon, there are only two things men should die for, gold, and love, honour doesn't buy you wine, it doesn't keep you warm at night, and it won't weep for you after you're food for the crows.' The sellsword itched his long, curved nose, and topped up his wine cup. 'What would you kill for, Jon Snow?' Daario asked, after he'd taken a long drink. 'Aside from your lovely sword.'

'My family, my duty.' Jon decided.

'Family, duty, and honour,' Daario summed up, and Jon flinched.

 _Tully words,_ he realised bitterly. _Lady Stark's words._

'You're a fool,' Daario told him good-naturedly, 'but you're young, and it's the joy of young men to kill and die for foolish things.'

'They're not foolish things,' Jon snapped.

Daario chuckled. 'Blood, and songs, and gold, and love,' he told Jon. 'You'll learn, you must be already. Sellswords aren't honourable, sellswords have no duty, and if you're here to sell that handsome blade of yours and not with your family, then you can't truly love them enough to die for.'

Jon grit his teeth. 'I am banished by my king, I can't be with them until I'm pardoned, but I'd gladly die for my brothers, my father, or my sister if my company didn't dishonour them.'

'Banished?' Daario poured a second cup, and shoved it across the table towards him. 'What did you do, sleep with the queen?' John flushed, the lingering fingers of the queen upon his cheek all too easily. 'A good reason,' Daario told him cheerfully. 'I've never had a queen.'

'Neither have I,' Jon growled, and Daario laughed, his gold-tooth flashing in the light. 'I did nothing, the king knighted me, and stuck me on a ship to Essos. He was half-mad and on his death bed.'

 _Robert probably thought it a mercy as much as anything,_ Jon reckoned. _Better to die young in red waters than rule._

'A knight-' Daario looked him up and down, '-I've seen a few like you, the Golden Company has a few hundred men who call themselves ser, but they all have horses. If you march around in all that leather and mail you'll boil to death in the sun.'

'I don't mind the heat,' Jon dismissed.

'Suit yourself,' Daario said, pushing the wine cup a little closer to him. Jon took a reluctant sip, but found it wasn't so bad as he had feared. 'You'll have to wait to get paid before you can buy anything anyway, and we've just finished out contract here.'

'Where are we headed next?' Jon asked curiously, taking a second small sip.

'Yunkai,' Daario revealed with some aplomb. 'We depart on the morrow, so tonight-' he raised his cup, mirrored by his men '-we drink, find ourselves a girl or two, and a quarrel to make it memorable!'

Jon raised his cup half-heartedly, and took a gulp. He wasn't all that interested in finding any of the three.

 _Yunkai._ He threw a look at Aqytho, who was looking far too innocent and pleased for his liking after his glimpse of the harpy in the flames. _Damn him and his red god._

AN: Please read and review, thanks to all who do!


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